Cigarettes and Petticoats
by The Sugarfaerie
Summary: Really, life is full of extraordinary coincidences... And not all are for the best. The life and times of Juno, Travesty, Tattoo and Liberty, from young girls to Diamond Dogs. Rated for violence, adult themes, language and sexual references. Complete!
1. Prologue

Yep, this is a chaptered fic. It's a multi-narrative, meaning that there are several corresponding, yet separate stories going on at the same time (though the stories are all connected, as you'll see). If it's confusing, I apologise- this piece is highly experimental (I'm actually using it as a practice run of the style for an original novel I have planned).

The main characters in this fic are: Liberty (Marianne), Travesty (Christine), Tattoo (Marguerite) and Juno (Cecile). Babydoll and some other Diamond Dogs also feature heavily (you'll see how). Cyber-cookies to anyone who gets the historical reference in Liberty's name.

Disclaimer and dedication: Don't own Moulin Rouge. This chapter is dedicated to Rosemarie-ouisama for first suggesting that I write a multi-chaptered fic.

Cigarettes and Petticoats 

All her life, Marianne had been taught to love the republic and despise the bourgeoisie. At the age of five she could be seen dancing around on the dusty floors of her father's bookshop, singing _la Marseillaise _in her clear, babyish voice, wincing as her brothers slapped her for getting a line wrongor not singing with the appropriate expression. Customers would laugh and clap and remark how clever she was, while Marianne finished with a flourish and flashed them a sweet, ignorant smile.

If asked why her family was so devoted to a time that was long past, Marianne would not have been able to answer. When he was sober Marianne's father had told his children florid tales of the Revolution, describing the storming of the Bastille with the appropriate amounts of blood and heroism while his children listened, wide-eyed. When Marianne's father was drunk he would rant and rave, asking God why he had been landed in a time when nothing supposedly happened, with two brainless clots for sons, a dead wife and a useless daughter.

When their father fell into another rage his children would steal books off the shelves and hide in the dusty corners of the attic, a sole candle serving for both warmth and light. Never having been to school and otherwise seeing few children, they were swept up into their father's historical fantasies and worshipped everything to do with the Revolution. By the age of nine Marianne could quote famous passages from the works of Voltaire or Rousseau off by heart, which she did without conviction. Her brothers would whine and moan about their misfortune of having been born a century late for the Revolution. Marianne would whisper under her breath about _liberté, egalité _and _fraternité _and not know what a single one of these words meant.

For a few years Marianne's father seemed like a god to her. However, as she became older Marianne began to lose her respect for him. Her older brothers could valiantly jump about the room with shouted cries of _Ça ira, ça ira, _but Marianne was the one who had to clean up her father's mess. When her father lost his temper one night and beat his daughter with a hot poker, twelve-year-old Marianne began to quietly rebel. "_Liberté,_" she would weep into her pillow as her scars slowly began to heal, gradually beginning to understand what the word actually meant. Freedom.

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As a child, Christine had been the embodiment of _l'enfant terrible. _She ran about the Quartier Latin dressed in a pair of raggedy men's pants and instead of a skirt, challenging the Parisian street children, the _gamins, _to various verbal and physical battles. Her skin was tinted brown by the sun and covered in everything from ink to sawdust. If spotted on the street she could easily have been mistaken for a _gamine _herself, until she opened her mouth and revealed at least a rudimentary education. A spectator would have been provided of further proof of her not living on the streets when her mother erupted from the house to claim her daughter, each yelling and kicking each other's shins.

While her chest and hips were still undeveloped enough to be mistaken for a boy's, Christine's tomboyish habits were disapproved of but tolerated. As the pants and shirt began to fail to disguise Christine's femininity, her parents began to thrust skirts and dresses at her and demand that she stay indoors. Christine, never having been a submissive girl, would protest wildly with increasingly creative arguments. She would escape into the Parisian streets whenever she could despite her mother's protests that she should act as a good doctor's daughter ought to, until one summer the boys with whom she had until recently had arm wrestles also began to realise that it was a girl whom they were dealing with. Suddenly they began to mind their manners around her, to look down as she approached and warn her of puddles in the street. When one of the older boys blushingly presented her with a daisy and tried to kiss her cheek, Christine stormed off in disgust, vowing never to play with the _gamins _again.

Mistaking this new development for an acceptance of Christine's femininity, Christine's mother began another desperate attempt to turn her daughter into someone she could bear introducing to her friends. Christine grudgingly learnt to pour tea and sew pretty designs on a hanky, and she may have even resigned herself to the fate of a single young lady if it hadn't been for a rather amorous baker's boy some years later.

When Christine thought about it later, she actually found it rather funny. At the point at which her father found her, the baker's boy's lips had just touched hers and she was about to pull back in order to give him a resounding slap about the face. Dr Devreaux didn't take lightly to his fourteen-year-old daughter doing God-knows-what in an alleyway with some boy, and after receiving a strong verbal earbashing Christine was out on the street without an idea as to what had just happened.

Ever the resourceful girl, Christine shrugged off the indignity of being thrown out of her home, and, instead of knocking on the door and begging to be let back in, turned about and headed wherever her feet would take her.

"So you ended up here by accident," the girls would say to her later.

Christine would smile darkly and return to brushing her hair or putting on her makeup. "Not exactly."

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Marguerite had been a dockside prostitute from the age of thirteen. She had drifted into her mother's profession more as a matter of course than misfortune, as the waterlogged slums of Calais didn't present many other options. Never having been taught any form of manners before, Marguerite quickly gained a colourful form of gutter talk that she would spout at the slightest provocation, making her an instant hit with the sailors. Tall, street smart and cunning, she had achieved a reasonable amount of notoriety by the age of fifteen, and it was at this time that she began saving her earnings for having intricate designs inked on her body.

The sight of her multi-coloured arms and legs took her fame to a whole new level. Soon sailors began to seek her out amongst the other whores, and Marguerite would entertain them with a sort of lofty scorn. In addition to tattoos, Marguerite would also spend an indecent sum of money on drink, not that this made her any different from anyone else on the docks. But as her drinking habit grew she slowly began finding herself short of money, and immersed herself in stealing. At first it was only little amounts of coins stealthily liberated from the pockets of her clients, then she began to take money and precious objects from houses and sell them on the thriving black market. It was a dangerous pastime, but Marguerite was meticulously careful at first.

She went on undetected for a year, until one day she made the mistake of trying to pickpocket the leader of one of the smuggling gangs. The leader in question had grabbed her around the neck and begun to pull her behind a house, obviously intending to both teach her a lesson and have a fuck for free at the same time. However, Marguerite hadn't worked the streets of Calais without knowing how to defend herself. A swift knee to the groin and bite to the hand was enough for Marguerite to tear herself free, and she bolted through the streets and alleyways to her garret, swearing violently all the way in the knowledge that she had just made matters much, much worse for herself. Had she remained still she might have gotten away with just a severe beating, but now that she had personally smashed the gang leader's most prized possession, half the under-world would be searching for her within a few days.

Any other girl would have panicked at the idea of being at the mercy of a gang without any plausible protection, but Marguerite was the sort of person who remained incredibly cool under pressure. Scraping up as much money as she could find in her mouldy garret, she packed up her meagre possessions and headed to the apartment of the concierge, where she dictated a letter to her cousin in Paris. _Dear Caroline, _the letter read. _I'm coming to Paris. No need to ask why. Meet me at the train station. Marguerite._

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When a seamstress in Monmartre gave in to scarlet fever and left her two children penniless, her eldest child, a boy, saw this as the prime occasion to rid himself of his kid sister once and for all.

"I've got to earn a living now, so won't have enough time to look after you, Cecile," he attempted to reason as his sister cried in desperation, her mop of golden curls sticking to her face in raggedy tangles. "It would be silly for you to stay with me… I wouldn't ever be home… Besides, you're old enough to look after yourself, there's kids out there on their own who are younger than you…"

This, if anything, made Cecile cry even harder, until her brother could no longer bear it and held his hand over her mouth to stop her. "Alright, fine!" he hissed. "Look, I'll take you to one of Mama's friends, how does that sound? You can help her sew skirts and stuff. That way you won't be alone. How does that sound?"

That was how, one rainy day, Cecile found herself at the back door of her mother's workplace; a very strange building with a glittering windmill on the top. She watched the bright red wings turn slowly despite the absence of much wind, while her brother spoke to a dark skinned man at the door and asked for someone named Elsa. Cecile was pulled out of her reverie when a flustered woman in her late forties came to stand in the doorway, with a very disapproving look on her face.

"Yes, what is it?" she snapped in thickly accented French.

Cecile's brother grabbed Cecile by the shoulder and thrust her into the woman's view. "Here. My little sister. Our mother's dead. Claudette. I think you knew her, she worked here as a seamstress."

Immediately the woman's facial expression softened. "Claudette… Yes, I did know her. Helped me with my French, she did. I heard that she died… I'm very sorry."

Cecile's brother muttered something incoherent. "Can you look after my little sister? She can sew and help you with your French. I'll give you money every month," he added hastily.

The woman smiled down at Cecile before averting her attention back to Cecile's brother. "Aren't you worried? This is not the place for a child. She could end up working as a…" She pointed up at the windmill above them.

Cecile's brother shrugged nonchalantly and once more pushed his sister forward "Couldn't care less, really," he admitted.

The woman frowned. "If that is your attitude, I guess I have no choice… What is the girl's name?"

"Cecile. She's ten."

"Well then…" The woman reached for Cecile's hand. "I'm Elsa. I hope that you will be able to help me."

Well, that was just the prologue, so I promise the action (and the plot!) will pick up next chapter, because that's when the story actually starts.

_Constructive criticism is GREATLY appreciated. This prologue was excruciatingly hard to write, I'll admit. It'll be easier for me to write the main body of the story. Marguerite (Tattoo)'s story caused me most trouble (she's such a hard character to write!)._

_Historical references and translations:_

_La Marseillaise: The current French national anthem, but it began as a rallying song during the French Revolution (it originated in Marseille, hence it's name)._

Liberté, egalité, fraternité: The underlying 'values' of the French Revolution. The English translation is liberty, equality, fraternity.

_Ça ira, ça ira: rallying cry of the French Revolutionaries. Translates literally as "It will go, it will go."_

_See you all next chapter! But until then, please review. _


	2. Chapter 1

Bonjour, mes amis! On to Chapter One. This one will make much more sense, in terms of both plot and structure.

Disclaimer: Oh, you know this already. I don't own Moulin Rouge. _The Lovely Bones _by Alice Sebold was very inspirational, as was Isabel Allende's _Eva Luna_ (some of Juno's story was directly inspired by it).

_Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, stuffed in a box with a lid on it?_

_No._

_Nor do I really… It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead… Which should make all the difference… shouldn't it?_

_Act Two, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead", by Tom Stoppard_

Marguerite would be the first to admit that she did not like her cousin. When her aunt had still lived in Calais her daughter Caroline would show off about having a slightly nicer home than Marguerite and her mother did, about how she wore prettier types of dresses and had learnt to read and write, whereas Marguerite remained perfectly illiterate. Marguerite would swear and cuff her cousin in response to the other's boasts, though there was some truth in them. There was no denying that Caroline's mother was the prettier of the two sisters and consequently the more successful, and Caroline seemed to have inherited her mother's looks. Marguerite had not been at all disappointed when her aunt had scraped up her available francs and disappeared to Paris with her daughter in order to chase a higher life.

Caroline would send prettily worded letters from time to time, mainly to further demonstrate her literacy than anything else, as Caroline was notoriously vain. Marguerite wasn't particularly interested in the letters- a reading from the concierge usually cost a few sous in any case- but they did provide Marguerite with one useful piece of knowledge: Caroline's address.

After two weeks of hiding out in the garrets of various sympathetic whores, Marguerite was on the train to Paris, hoping against hope that Caroline had received her letter by now. If she hadn't, Marguerite would have to somehow make her way in Paris on her own. How she was going to go about that was a mystery, as the last of Marguerite's money had gone towards her train ticket. Still, Marguerite mused as the French countryside flew by the window, she had been penniless in Calais plenty of times before, and she couldn't imagine that Paris was very different. She would find her way somehow.

With this renewed determination, Marguerite almost wished that Caroline wouldn't be there as the train pulled into the Paris station. Her hopes were dashed, however, when she spotted a curly haired figure standing on the platform, raised up on tiptoe and waving a white handkerchief as if she were farewelling a lover on a boat to America instead of meeting her disgruntled cousin. Marguerite groaned inwardly as she strode towards Caroline, noting that Caroline's naturally light brown curls were now dyed a violent shade of yellow and her makeup was applied thickly even by a prostitute's standards. Clearly Caroline's vanity hadn't died down as she grew older.

"You're here!" Caroline gasped theatrically, as if her life had not been complete without Marguerite present.

"You're blonde," Marguerite replied dryly, knowing not to fall for Caroline's dramatics.

Caroline visually examined the woman in front of her, her eyebrows raising at the sight of Marguerite's tattooed arms. "I take it we have the same profession?" she inquired mockingly.

"If whoring is what you're talking about, then yes. If you're talking about being a stuck-up, nose-in-the-air trollop… No, that's just you."

Caroline immediately dropped her act of welcome and retreated into their old animosity. "I'd be careful, if I were you… I'm only offering you a place to stay because I'm behind on my rent, and I need someone to help pay. In return, I'll get you started in Paris. I'm fair."

Marguerite held up her hands in defeat. "Fine!" she said dismissively, picking up her small bag of belongings. "Take me to this rat-hole of yours."

Caroline grinned smugly and led the way from the train station, her hips swinging in the casual movement of one who was accustomed to it. Rolling her eyes at Caroline's back, Marguerite followed, pointedly ignoring the many horrified looks she gained from the Parisians. When a little boy stopped dead at the sight of her and stared as if she was a freak at a circus show, Marguerite had enough. "Boo!" she hissed suddenly at the boy, then made a show of cackling madly as the child ran crying to his mother.

Outside the train station, Caroline shook her head. "Now really, you've _got _to become more sophisticated now that you're in Paris," she chided with the air of a governess reprimanding a disobedient young aristocrat.

Marguerite responded with a very rude gesture. "Come off it. I'll stay with you as long as it's necessary and then I'll have my own place, so you won't have to look at me again. Does that sound alright, princess?"

Caroline tossed her yellow mane and smiled indulgently at a pair of young workmen. "Yes, that sounds quite alright."

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As her feet carried her out of the streets she had played in as a child, it occurred to Christine that it probably hadn't been her father's intention to throw her out of the house for good. Not that this knowledge changed anything, as Christine was too proud to turn back anyway. She had been told on various occasions that she was arrogant, and Christine would respond with either a haughty smile or a cutting remark, depending on who else was in the room at the time. Even so, there was certainly an element of truth to the claims, one that even Christine could not deny. That and her sharp tongue was mainly what got her sacked from the various jobs she tried to take up after leaving home, until Christine eventually decided that Quartier Latin was not the place for her, and headed for the darker streets of Montmartre.

The employers in Montmartre turned out to be far more open to the idea of having an employee who would let off a steady flood of insults if she was so much as stared at, and that was how, nearly five months after turning her back on her family, Christine found herself in the kitchen of a grubby little café washing dishes. It was not an ideal occupation, but, as Christine reasoned, it was better than starving.

Christine sometimes scrubbed dishes well into the night, and it was one of those late nights that she was alerted to another talent she unwittingly possessed.

Leaning against the café's back door for a few minutes of peace and quiet before returning home, Christine spied a bony-looking girl a couple of years older than her standing against the opposing wall, smoking a cigarette with a bored expression.

"Here," the girl said roughly, offering her cigarette to Christine. "You look as if you need it."

Christine quickly accepted the cigarette, not wanting to admit that she had never smoked before. She raised the glowing object to her chapped lips, and something must have given her away, because the other girl laughed coquettishly. "You inhale, sweetheart," she sniggered.

Christine glared and did so, the unexpected rush of smoke causing her to cough violently. Predictably, the girl laughed even harder. "You're new around here, I can tell," she commented, darting forward and reclaiming the cigarette from Christine's shaking fingers. "You work at the café, then?" she asked, shoving the cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, I do," Christine said defiantly, angry at having been made to look like a fool. "And what do you do, then?"

The girl took a long drag on her cigarette and then exhaled slowly. "I'm a dancer," she said matter-of-factly.

"A dancer?" Christine scoffed, taking in the girl's brightly coloured dress. "Well, if that's not a euphemism, I don't know what is."

The girl paused, cigarette swinging dangerously from her left hand as she tried to comprehend what Christine had just said. "Say what?" she said finally before sucking on her cigarette again.

Christine smiled, glad at finally getting the upper hand again. "Euphemism," she repeated with deliberate slowness as she ran her fingers through her dark hair that was still lank from steam. "It's a… oh, never mind."

The girl dropped her cigarette on the rain-slicked cobblestones and crushed it out with her boot. "Whatever. I never understand that fancy talk, anyway. I _am _a dancer, though- just you watch."

With that, the unknown girl began a seemingly spontaneous dance in the middle of the alleyway, with high kicks and pirouettes and all sorts of other things Christine had never believed would be anatomically possible. As Christine looked on, flabbergasted, the girl turned a graceful cartwheel and landed centimetres away from Christine's face. "Dance, if you can," she said in a way that was both a command and a challenge. "C'mon!" the girl laughed, tapping Christine on the nose with her forefinger. "Dance!"

Christine's only dance training consisted of joining some of the female _gamins _in performing childish ballets in the street to earn a few coins. Even so, Christine couldn't resist a challenge, and, jumping off the narrow curb, threw herself into any steps she could think of. At first she attempted to copy the girl's complicated leaps and kicks, but when her lack of tuition prevented her, she took up a series of spins and turns instead, half slipping on the cobblestones as she spun faster and faster. Eventually all else in the world began to slip away and Christine forgot why she was dancing. All she knew was that while she was whirling about the alleyway, she felt more exhilarated than she had ever felt before.

After a while her tired feet failed to catch up with her and Christine tripped and came down with a crash. Holding her now throbbing right ankle, Christine swore violently as the real world came rushing back. "_Fuck!_" she yelled angrily, slapping the ground in frustration and then cursing again when her hand smarted.

It was then she realised that the dancing girl was clapping, slowly and sarcastically. "Not bad," she admitted. "Not bad at all. I'll probably see you in a dance hall somewhere… You'll be snapped up in a heartbeat."

And with a laugh and a swish of brightly coloured skirts, she was gone.

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One thing Cecile realised shortly after entering her new home was that it was very hard to get back out. Daylight didn't appear to be very welcome, as many of the dusty windows were covered with thick curtains or blankets. The seamstresses seemed to be the only ones who worked by the light of day, and Cecile always had the suspicion that the larger part of the building- a dance hall, Elsa told her- only came alive when the sun went down. Days and nights were reversed, you worked at night and slept by day.

The reasons for this odd reversal remained oddly disguised to Cecile for the first few months. Elsa, who despite her brisk manner was in fact a caring woman, flatly refused to let Cecile see anything but the corridor where the seamstresses worked. "It's nothing for the eyes of a young girl," she would warn in her thick German accent. "You stay here until you're older. Then, you will become a lady's maid or a dressmaker. But this- no, its not for you."

There were five dressmakers when Cecile arrived, and Cecile took her mother's place to become the sixth. It was a quiet, claustrophobic life, surrounded by frills and taffeta and dominated by humourless, bitter women.

"She is pretty," one of the other seamstresses, a plump woman by the name of Claude stated flatly upon seeing Cecile. "Better to give her to a household as a maid-of-all-work. She will only fall into trouble here."

"Cecile is a good girl," Elsa retaliated snappishly. "She will not become one of them."

'They' were referred to frequently, and it didn't take long before Cecile concluded that 'they' were the women who retrieved the finished or mended dresses with rapid, distracted airs and in the early mornings haughtily dumped torn stockings and ripped chemises on the floor. Elsa tried her best to 'protect' Cecile from them by insisting that Cecile still slept at night in the dusty chamber that passed as the seamstresses' bedroom. Lying awake and staring at the flaky ceiling, Cecile would listen to the faint, yet ever-present thrum of an orchestra somewhere in the depths and catch the odd shriek or giggle from the corridor below and wonder what it was that Elsa didn't want her to see.

The few 'them' that Cecile encountered were the ones who agreed with Elsa in keeping her innocent. They would come wearing their most discreet clothes and little make-up, pinching Cecile's cheeks and treating her as if she were an adorable puppy who had learnt a new trick.

"Oh, you are so pure and sweet," one of them would coo, presenting Cecile with boxes of chocolates that she would rather die than eat herself.

"A true angel," another would nod, tying a pale pink ribbon in Cecile's hair.

Cecile would smile and accept the gifts with small murmurs of appreciation, her mind ticking over with a constant, unquenchable curiosity. _Who are you,_ she wanted to say. _What am I doing here._

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Living in a home of political absolutes, Marianne could think of no better form of passive resistance than taking the completely other point of view. So, Marianne threw herself into the imaginary world of the bourgeoisie. She yelled with support for Charlotte Corday and delighted in the death of Marat. When her brothers cheered in triumph at the executions of King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette, Marianne would weep into her bright red skirt and curse the long-dead men she had worshipped all her life.

Determined to look the part at least outside the house, Marianne began scavenge for coins to buy kohl for her eyes, even through she only succeeded in making herself look like she had just run into a door. She tried valiantly to pull her ash blonde hair into something resembling the style of an aristocratic lady, but each time her creation either tumbled down as soon as she had removed her hands or looked remarkably like a deceased turkey. When her oldest brother caught her in front of the mirror trying desperately to fix another failed hairdo, he was instantly suspicious.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, slamming the door behind him. Marianne's father's drinking habit had increased of late, and whatever the children's feelings towards one another, none of them wanted to witness another beating.

"Nothing, Jehan!" Marianne replied hastily, lowering her hands to her sides as quickly as possible. "My hair was in the way, that's all… I'm trying to tie it back so that it doesn't annoy me."

Marianne moved backwards as Jehan stepped closer, her legs bumping against the dressing table and causing her carefully laid out comb and pins to topple onto the dusty floor. "Jehan, please," she whispered. "I was only trying to put up my hair…"

"And what is that?" Jehan demanded, pointing to the remnants of kohl around Marianne's eyes. "You look like a common whore."

Marianne searched frantically in her mind for some possible explanation but could think of none. Jehan was sixteen and certainly no fool; he knew perfectly well what kohl was. "I don't know what the hell you're playing at," Jehan said through gritted teeth, "but it ends here, do you understand?"

Marianne couldn't help it, she squeaked like a mouse. "Jehan, it's nothing, really…" she begged, trying to retreat even more and bruising her back on the table. Seemingly emotionless, Jehan lunged for Marianne's arm and thrust her forward, his other hand reaching for a large pair of scissors on the table.

"Jehan!" Marianne shrieked, terrified of what would happen to her. Ignoring his sister's cries, Jehan gathered Marianne's blonde tresses in his hand and in three quick slices of the scissors severed them from her body.

"There!" he said triumphantly, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now your hair won't bother you anymore."

He swept out the bedroom door with an air of satisfaction, the scissors still clutched in his hand.

Marianne gazed at the locks of hair littering the ground and then at her horribly uneven cropped cut in the mirror. Remembering how enemies of the revolution had their hair cut before their appointment with the guillotine, Marianne tugged at some loose strands and let a few tears fall from her eyes onto the creaky floorboards.

"_Liberté_" she murmured to her reflection. The one thing she never had.

So, the actual plot is on the way! Apologies for Liberty(Marianne), she's not actually that soppy. She's just had a hard life, that's all.

_Pay attention to Caroline, as she's pivotal character (though not as important as Marguerite, of course). Congratulations in advance to anyone who works out who she is (though that's pretty obvious)._

_Historical references:_

_Charlotte Corday, Marat's murder: Marat was one of the leaders of the French Revolution who was murdered by a young woman, the daughter of a poor nobleman by the name of Charlotte Corday. Corday murdered Marat because she believed he was ordering too many executions and that the French people were suffering as a result. She ended up being executed by guillotine herself. _

_Guillotine: Method of execution invented during the French Revolution. It was a machine that dropped a blade from on high at a very high speed, thus beheading the unfortunate below. Victim's hair was cut so that it did not inhibit the blade._

_King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette: Former king and queen of France. Both were executed by guillotine._

_Jehan: This name is 'borrowed' from Victor Hugo's masterpiece 'Les Miserables'. It's the first name of a student revolutionary, so I thought it appropriate._

_Quartier Latin: Inner-city 'suburb' or 'quarter' of Paris. Close to Montmartre. _

_That's it, folks, see you next chapter!_


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I'm sick of these. I own nothing except the plot.

This chapter is dedicated to the (sadly defeated) Socceroos. I thought you were winners. The chapter is also dedicated to the Wallabies rugby team, in hopes that they flatten England on Saturday (no offence to any English people reading this. I'm just patriotic when it comes to sport).

A note on this chapter: As the stories are getting going now, I've decided to only have two girls per chapter due to length. Cecile (Juno) and Christine (Travesty) are up this time, Marguerite and Marianne will be next.

A Small Piece of Truth: I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold. And I don't have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

_Death, from 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak_

If curiosity killed the cat, then Cecile was the kitten who unthinkingly followed suit. At ten Elsa easily kept Cecile under control, at twelve Cecile was no longer so co-operative. She quickly realised exactly what went on in the corridor below them, as growing up in Montmartre ensured that she wasn't a complete innocent. Elsa tried to keep her distracted by letting Cecile run about the garden during the day and attempting to teach her to read, but Cecile ended up being banned from the garden for picking flowers and trying to climb the elephant, and her illiteracy wasn't reduced by so much as one letter.

The truth was, Cecile realised as she stitched cloth flowers onto a background of brown velvet, that she was incredibly, undeniably bored. Her inquiries to the girls about their activities were met with worried glances and evasive replies, and the seamstresses more frequently told her to keep quiet than provided her with answers. One night, her fingers still stinging from slips of the needle, she crept out of bed and down the seamstresses corridor, determined to find out exactly what this dance hall involved herself.

Only knowing the backstage, Cecile navigated her way through the maze of corridors by instinct, following the music, laughter and squeals as they became louder. After a few wrong turns she found herself in what she later learned to be the cancan dancers' dressing room. The music was stronger than ever here, as if it were just on the other side of the wall. A few headdresses and chemises lay scattered about the long tables amongst pots of makeup, dutifully locked jewellery boxes, old brushes and perfume bottles. Cecile picked her way through the mess towards a larger set of doors, nearly tripping over a pair of boots that lay carelessly in the centre of the floor.

The sight beyond the doors was, if anything, illuminating.

An immensely fat woman shook her skirts at a leering old gentleman while another woman in yellow sat cackling on a table. A girl barely a year older than Cecile danced intricate circles around a man who guffawed appreciatively at her. The girl's ginger hair flashed flame-like behind her as she danced close enough to brush the man with her skirt, which, Cecile realised, was the same skirt she had embroidered flowers on to that morning. The incomprehensively massive room was a heaving, pulsing sea of light and colour, fed through impossibly loud music that seemed to increase in speed and volume by the second.

Cecile was about to take a closer look at the woman in yellow who was now guzzling a glass of acid green liquid, when the door next to Cecile opened with a bang and several gaudily-clad women swept into the room, their voices rising above one another and punctuated with bubbling laughter.

"I'm telling you, Mermaid, that man is just rolling in money! You could almost smell it!"

"Shut up, Circus, you wouldn't know a rich man if you fell over him, little savage that you are."

"Big words coming from you, _Arabia_," an aqua-clad woman, possibly Mermaid, snapped in defence of a fine-boned girl in a spotted dress.

The woman closest to Cecile spun around, her coffee-coloured skin flushing slightly. "Well, at least _I _was raised in a proper home, not a caravan."

The girl in the spotted dress went a fantastic shade of red and Cecile decided that it was a good moment to remove herself from the dressing room. She was just backing towards the stairs when she was spotted by one of the dancers.

"Oi, you," the girl half-shouted, her bright red lips set in a permanent pout. "What are you doing here? You someone's kid, or what?"

Cecile opened her mouth stupidly, but no sound would come out. Shrugging apologetically, she stood rooted to the spot until the woman in aqua spoke up again. "Leave her be, Pearly Queen. She works with the seamstresses. I've seen her up there."

"Works with the seamstresses, eh?" the first woman said, pulling at the neckline of her spectacular studded gown. "Well, you'd best be getting back there, then. The seamstresses are probably wetting themselves by now, wondering if you've been corrupted."

Cecile murmured some form of apology and tripped over the abandoned boots again. This time she wasn't so lucky and hit the floor with a loud smack.

"Clumsy!" the coffee-skinned woman hissed, stalking over to join Pearly Queen in front of one of the spotty mirrors.

Cecile glowered as fiercely as possible at the woman's retreating back , until a fat-faced man dressed in surprisingly plain clothes entered through another door, his balding head reflected in the mirrored walls. "C'mon girls, Harold's about announce the next dance, you've got to get back out there- oh hello, who are you?" he asked, spotting Cecile on the ground.

"Seamstresses' girl who got lost," Pearly Queen chimed in airily before Cecile could answer.

"You work with the seamstresses, do you," the man said heartily. "Well, what's your name, then?"

"Cecile," Cecile replied. It came out as a squeak.

The man regarded her thoughtfully as various girls filed out through the doors. "Your age?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve?" the man considered. "Well, twelve _is _a bit young. Run along then, I'm sure the ladies are wondering where you are."

When she stumbled back into the bedroom, her mind still drunk with colour and sound, Cecile came face to face with Elsa. "Foolish girl, foolish, foolish!" the German woman reprimanded, landing Cecile a resounding slap across the face. "Don't you understand that this is not for you?"

Cecile half sat, half fell onto her too-small bed, holding her cheek and whimpering in shock and pain. Elsa was by nature a strict woman, but she usually refrained from hitting Cecile. But for the first time, she appeared to be genuinely angry, barely even looking at her charge as she paced up and down through the ill-lit room. "Did anyone see you?" she demanded, "Any men?"

Cecile cowered and nodded, fearing another slap. Elsa stopped her pacing immediately and fixed Cecile with a look that was part exasperation and part pity. "Cecile, tell me honestly. What did this man look like? Did he have red hair, a moustache?"

Cecile shook her head, still cowering. "No. He had a moustache, but he didn't have red hair."

Elsa sat down on the bed opposite Cecile's and put her head in her hands. "That would be the stage manager, then. He's bound to tell Zidler that you're here… Oh, there's no hope in saving you now. If only you had stayed here… Oh, I've done all that I could do."

From that day forth, Elsa was considerably less protective of Cecile and let the girl run about basically where she wanted. Though Cecile still received a slap if she drifted down to the dressing rooms at night, she ran wild backstage, discovering old abandoned corridors and getting under the feet of the dancers. Still without playmates, Cecile spent most of the time that she wasn't sewing exploring the attic or throwing paper balls for the two young cats who were supposed to catch mice.

One early evening, when rain was bashing against the windows and no one in their right mind would venture outside, Elsa sent Cecile to wait in the stage door corridor for a man who was supposed to deliver a new bolt of cloth. Cecile amused herself by practicing a few of the dance steps she had seen some of the girls rehearse, although Elsa had forbidden it. Cecile had just performed something resembling a _grande jeté _when there was a loud, insistent knocking on the other side of the stage door. Presuming it to be the cloth deliveryman, Cecile opened the door without a second thought, and started in surprise when she saw a young woman instead. The woman was tall and dark haired and, confusingly, was wearing a battered-looking men's top hat on her head.

"I'm after a job," she inquired briskly, her dark eyes regarding Cecile as if she were some sort of canal rat. "Do you know whom I should see?"

Cecile, still gazing at the woman's hat, opened and closed her mouth in a startlingly good imitation of a fish before squeaking an answer. "Zidler's office," she whispered, and then babbled on breathlessly, "but I don't know where it is, I'm not allowed there. You could ask Chocolat, or Elsa, maybe even Claude…"

Without waiting for Cecile to finish her sentence, the woman brushed by her. "Never mind," she hissed. "I'll find it myself."

&#&#&#&

As Christine's slightly haughty behaviour had been the cause of many job losses in the past, Christine had never thought that there were some jobs were it might be an asset. Still stuck in the glamorous world of dishwashing, Christine spent any spare time she had dancing in the alleyways in search of the freedom she had experienced before, always making sure that no one saw these odd moments of weakness. Her raven black curls irritated her, so she pinned them up, and under a permanent façade of aloofness tried to disguise the fact that she was far from anywhere she might have wanted to end up.

She didn't become a prostitute by accident, or at least she didn't like to think of it that way. A misunderstanding, perhaps. At any rate, when a man in the street offered her more money than she might have received in a week, she was squeamish only for a moment before following him behind one of the houses. It was only for the money, really, she told herself during the moments when she wondered why she had gotten herself into the industry in the first place. She had been behind on her rent anyway.

After having been alerted to these moneymaking opportunities, Christine slipped into the whoring business with barely a second thought. Covered in some make up she had bargained from one of the women in her lodging house, she washed dishes by day and walked the streets by night, spending any spare money on cigarettes and cheap liquor to keep herself going. She attracted clients through dancing in bars and as many humorous remarks as she could muster, hoping to gain a higher class of customer through a display of wit. When the sky began to turn pink she would fall into bed for a few hours sleep before heading to the café, so tired by this point that she could barely stumble in the doorway.

If her employers guessed anything about her nighttime profession, they kept quiet about it, though one of the waiters started paying her far more attention than he ought to. He followed her out into the street one evening and predictably offered her a sum of money. The amount was far more than Christine expected him to have, but the streets did not provide regular work and she had learnt from experience not to turn down offers.

He had taken her back to his garret, and once they were done placed the money next to her on the bed, now seeming slightly embarrassed. Christine counted the money with a business-like air, wondering how she could possibly use the situation to her advantage.

"This is a large amount for someone who doesn't earn a lot," she commented casually as the man pulled on his pants. "Haven't been stealing, have you?"

The man shrugged nonchalantly, but his face turned a telling shade of pink.

"And you spent so much on me?" Christine continued with mock amazement. "I'm flattered. Tell me… does the chef know you're raiding his pockets?"

The man turned even redder. "Listen, Christine," he said through gritted teeth, "I don't want to hurt you…"

"Hurt me?" Christine laughed. " And what do you think I'll do at work tomorrow? Tell them exactly how you came by the money and then what you did with it."

The man shuffled uncomfortably, looking very regretful at the fact the Christine was now sitting on his bed. Clearly the idea of rendering Christine permanently unable to speak either didn't appeal or didn't occur to him."I haven't got any more money to give you," he murmured.

Christine shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I'll take something else to keep quiet. Give me…" Her eyes cast about the one-room apartment until they fell on a shabby top hat sitting on top of a trunk. "Give me that hat," she finished with a smile.

The man gave it to her without a word, and Christine couldn't help but giggle as she left the room. Really, she thought, men were fun to manipulate.

With a top hat on her head and a teasing laugh upon her lips, Christine became instantly recognisable amongst the other whores in the pubs. Men soon began to seek her out at the taverns she frequented, and from the other girls she gained a variety of names, _la putain travesti, _the transvestite whore, being one of the nicer ones. As the money started to increase Christine began updating her appearance, wearing a smoke-grey dress on her nightly rounds and sculling down large amounts of more upmarket drinks. At just over seventeen, she was the female equivalent of a dandy and she revelled in the position, selling her charms until she would slip, ghost-like, back to her room, a wraith held together by lies and cigarette smoke.

It was obvious that the café would sack her. Christine didn't know why she had even bothered keeping her day job, as whoring brought her far more payment than she had ever earned there. When the manager of the café sacked her for being found asleep in a corner of the kitchen, Christine decided to focus on her other occupation and move into a higher market. She thought of selling herself in strictly business terms. There was no need to get emotionally involved, she thought, that was for silly streetwalkers and you could never go far if you indulged in such things. Christine had never believed in fairy tales, but now she had found a princess to worship: money.

With this thought in her mind, it was inevitable that she drifted towards the dancehalls, remembering that dancing in taverns had always brought her more success. Striding up to the back door of the most glimmering, attention-seeking bordello she had ever laid eyes on, Christine smiled as she recalled the final words of the girl in the alleyway, the one who had first alerted her to the fact that she could dance. _I'll probably see you in one of the dancehalls somewhere… You'll be snapped up in a heartbeat._

How true.

"I'm after a job," she demanded of the tiny blonde girl who answered the door. "Do you know whom I should see?"

When the girl started listing a whole list of names after mentioning someone called Zidler, Christine wrote the girl off as stupid and brushed past her to find the man herself. A few inquiries of stagehands and heavily painted dancers led her to an office that was surprisingly dingy compared to the glitz and glamour of the rest of the building.

"Can you dance?" was the first thing the fat, redheaded man behind the desk asked. He had a finely sculpted moustache that Christine suspected took quite a while to shape each morning, rosy cheeks and the air of a circus ring master inspecting a new show pony.

"I can dance, but I've never had proper training," Christine admitted while the man's eyes took in her appearance. "But I'm a fast learner," she added hastily.

The man leaned back in his chair, seemingly pleased with her answer. "Always good to be enthusiastic, chickpea, that's the way. I daresay one of the girls could instruct you. Dancing is essential, but that's not all you'd be doing at the Moulin Rouge, I'm sure you understand."

"I've been doing this sort of thing for a while," Christine replied carelessly. "There's nothing I'm not capable of."

The man smiled a showman's smile. "I'm glad to hear it." He leaned back in his chair once more, once again examining her with a critical eye. "Of course, darling, if you are to work here, you'll be needing a name…" Christine took this as a conformation of her place at the Moulin Rouge, even though they had only spoken for five minutes. "Something glamorous, I should think, with just a hint of danger… Pirate?"

Christine choked. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, no, not quite right," Zidler reconsidered, gazing into the smoky atmosphere as if it would somehow give him inspiration. "Duchess? A little _too_ glamorous. Hmm…" His gaze fell on Christine's top hat and his face brightened. "Dandy! Yes, considering your attire it seems quite appropriate. Never had that sort of look before, could be a hit…"

Christine could swear that she saw the francs flitting about the man's mind. Something had to be done, because as appropriate as it was, Christine most certainly did not want to be landed with a name like Dandy. A clever bit of word play mixed with the memories of whispers behind her back brought a better name to mind.

"How about Travesty?" she suggested, interrupting Zidler's reverie.

Zidler looked up instantly. "Travesty… I like the way you say it. Travesty… Yes, now that I think about it… Yes, Travesty it is!"

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. She was about to ask what this name would exactly entail when there was a timid knock on the office door, followed by a tentative "M'sieur Zidler?"

Zidler waved his hand impatiently, as if this could somehow cause the knocker to go away. "Yes, yes, come in," he said resignedly. The door was opened by a small, bony girl that Christine instantly established as a cancan dancer. She was a bird of a girl, clad in a white satin dress covered in multi-coloured polka dots, her hair was tied back with a wide ribbon of the same material, and Christine could spot the glimmer of a full, forest green petticoat as she walked forward.

"I've got a message from the seamstresses," she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "They said the dress for Mam'selle Satine is ready, and do you want it picked up or sent over?"

"Oh, why do they bother me with such things?" Zidler moaned theatrically, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Circus!" he yelled, and the bird-like girl jumped visibly. She seemed terrified to be in Zidler's presence. "Circus," Zidler repeated gently, with a big, false reassuring smile. "I'd like you to take this girl down to the bedrooms, get her acquainted. Her name is Travesty." He motioned in Christine's general direction, and Christine waved sarcastically.

Zidler got up from his chair and strode pompously to the door, nearly knocking the poor dancer over. "And if the seamstresses have another pointless message," he bellowed as he left the room, "Tell them I don't want to hear it!"

Christine stifled a snicker behind her gloved hand. The other girl looked at her as if she was mad. "_Travesty_?" she said disbelievingly.

Christine got up to introduce herself properly. "Christine Devreaux. And you are?"

The girl grinned wryly. "Irina Nicholevna."

Christine laughed before she realised that the other girl didn't appear to be joking. "You're kidding," she stated.

The girl rolled her eyes. "It's Russian. Don't even try to pronounce it, everyone who does seems to trip over their own tongue," she said dryly. "Call me Circus. Your real name doesn't matter here anyway, you'll be Travesty from now on."

"Travesty," Christine muttered as she stepped out of Zidler's office and followed Circus through a maze of staircases and passageways. "Right."

The dressing room was messy, crowded and shabby despite the large amount of satin-clad dancers either lacing themselves into dresses or doing their makeup. Circus directed Christine over to an empty chair and them disappeared in the mass of people jostling for a space in front of the mirrors.

Christine's presence aroused little interest in the mass of dancers; either they were used to newcomers or they were too busy getting ready to notice her. Appreciative of the few moments alone, Christine took her chance to observe her new surroundings, wishing that she had thought to bring her cigarettes.

She was just watching a tall, formidable woman in black and red slide into spilt when a sharp-faced dancer with oil-black hair plunked herself down in the seat opposite her. Christine blinked. There was something familiar about this woman…

"I never forget a face," the woman told her in a crackly, street-bred voice. "Did you used to work in a café a couple of streets away?"

The woman raised a cigarette to her lips and recognition dawned on Christine. "You're the girl from the alleyway," she said, half-accusingly. "You challenged me to a dance!"

The woman grinned widely. "I was wondering how long it would be before you showed up. Right, wasn't I? They'd snap you up in a heartbeat."

Christine grinned back, secretly glad that she had found a familiar face in the crowd. "Travesty", she introduced herself, holding out her hand. The woman shook it with a laugh.

"Nini."

&$&$&

Ta da! Told you it was long. Did anyone get that the girl in the alleyway was Nini? Cookies for you if you did.

_References:_

_La putain travesti: Actually does mean 'the transvestite whore' in French. Makes Travesty's name even more appropriate, doesn't it?_

_Irina Nicholevna: The name Nicholevna was 'lifted' from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and the name Irina is taken from the name of the Russian ballerina Irina Baronova. I don't speak a single word of Russian and I wanted an authentic name._

_The girl Christine meets in Zidler's office, Circus, is my own invention, but she's not a big character. I just thought that the full ensemble of cancan dancers wouldn't have been fully established by this point yet, and there'd be a few others at this stage. Mermaid's another invention of mine._


	4. Chapter 3

Welcome to the next chapter! On to the tales of Marguerite and Marianne. The quote this time is from a song by an Australian band called The Living End. Their new album has been very inspirational. The quote applies most to Marianne's story, but it can also apply to Marguerite if twisted around ;)

This chapter is where the PG-13 (or 'T' as they call it now) comes to play. Not for little kids, this (a bit violent).

Disclaimer: Don't own Moulin Rouge.

_Suicidal education,_

_It got sold to our generation_

_Wake up to the manipulation,_

_Wake up to the situation._

"_Wake up", by The Living End_

If there was one thing Marianne had gained from a lifetime of memorising facts and figures, it was not to trust anyone. Her own brothers, with whom she had until recently been reasonably close, abandoned her for their own brand of bohemianism, and Marianne's father conducted his own Reign of Terror within the walls of their house. When she was sixteen Marianne was still leading a jailed life, one that she physically went along with and mentally resented. Her hair grew back into its former blonde mop, and Marianne kept it pinned in a simple bun so as not to arouse her brother Jehan's suspicions. As far as he was concerned she had given up her bourgeois ways.

Marianne found rebellion in ways that would outwardly seem appropriate. She slipped _Les Miserables _off the bookshop shelves and skimmed over the gunpowder-soaked passages on the July Revolution, instead sympathising with the oppressed and downtrodden, turning her father into Thenardier and seeing her brother's faces in the Patron-Minette. It was much easier to hate someone when you thought of them as a character in a book.

Aside from this she read anything from Penny Dreadfuls to atlases, dreaming about the ideal country to flee to. America seemed by far the most appealing, with its wide-open spaces and the fact that it was so blissfully far away from France.

Little changed in Marianne's home, except that now her father raved and ranted more than he told stories. Marianne was small for her age and just a shade off scrawny, so in her father's rages she would tuck herself into a corner of one of the rooms and pray that she wasn't going to be targeted. She would hear the sounds of empty rum bottles hitting the walls, hear the tread of heavy footsteps and hold her wrists so tightly that her nails bit into her flesh and she received a patterning of tiny, half-moon scars.

Her fevered dreams were haunted by severed heads and jeering crowds, ghosts of past terrors that clung to her imagination. There remained no doubt in Marianne's mind that she was going mad, and she needed to leave this tiny world that was permanently in the past and join the present, for the sake of her sanity if nothing else. She already had firmly made up her mind to leave the country as soon as she was able and go to foreign shores. America, she thought to herself. I'll earn money somewhere and go to America.

All of Marianne's treasured possessions fitted comfortably into a small leather satchel. It was a meagre collection; a bound copy of _Les Miserables _that she had stolen, a few pages on Marie Antoinette and Charlotte Corday that she had torn out of one of the heavy books on revolutionary history, an embroidered handkerchief that she had inherited from her mother and some of her salvaged makeup. She considered stealing money from her father to support herself, but couldn't find the courage. After all, it couldn't be that hard to earn money in Paris.

It was nearly midnight and foggy when Marianne clambered out of the kitchen window and into the dampened street. Escaping the house had been absurdly easy, and Marianne kept looking over the shoulder to see if her father or one of her brothers would jump out behind a corner to bring her back. But she met no resistance, and Marianne broke into a run to take her as far away from her father's bookshop as possible. It began to rain heavily as she fled, her hair becoming plastered to her face and the hem of her skirt soaking from trailing in so many puddles. When she judged herself far enough, Marianne took shelter in a shop doorway and tried to come to terms with her new freedom.

She must have drifted to sleep at some point, because the next morning she was woken by a cry from the shopkeeper's wife who had found her slumped against the doorframe. Upon determining that Marianne was not dead, as she had first suspected, the shopkeeper's wife unceremoniously threw Marianne out and Marianne was in the Parisian street with nothing but a satchel and a shawl in her possession.

For the next few days Marianne drifted at random through the streets with only a vague knowledge of what she had originally intended to do. A stolen apple provided her with the first food she had had for a while, but Marianne was still delirious from hunger and cold and it was completely by accident that she found herself at Montmartre's grinning entrance.

Mountain of martyrs, she observed groggily. That sounded like an appropriate place for her. She stumbled through the entrance into the next street, and, not able to think of anything else to do, sat down against a building and prepared to go to sleep, a small, forgotten figure in the gathering dark.

She was rudely awakened when something kicked her hard in the ribs and a shrieking mass of ruffles landed beside her. Marianne blinked sleepily as the pile of ruffles revealed itself to be a heavily made up young woman with the brightest curls that Marianne had ever seen, clad in a pastel blue dress of cheap, frothy satin.

"That wasn't funny!" the yellow haired girl insisted as she pulled herself up from the ground. It was only now that Marianne registered that another, dark haired woman was standing about a metre further down the street, laughing madly at the sight of Marianne and the blonde girl on the ground. The blonde girl stood up fully and brushed off her dress, her face a rather unflattering shade of magenta.

"Find yourself a high-up place to work at, sweetie," the dark haired woman yelled at Marianne as the two women started to walk down the street. Marianne started as she saw that the woman's arms were covered in a clash of brightly coloured tattoos. "There ain't nothing to be had out here," the tattooed woman finished and disappeared around a corner. Marianne listened long enough to hear the yellow haired girl squawk in protest, then leant her head back against the wall and tried to think of what to do next.

After a few minutes, Marianne got up simply because it seemed the best thing to do. She wandered the unfamiliar streets in search of a food vendor she could beg or steal something to eat from, her empty belly controlling her mind. She eventually managed to 'lift' a small loaf of bread from a bakery, and before the baker knew what had happened tore down the street and out of sight, the bread tucked under her shawl. She ducked into a bar for safety, tearing apart the loaf with her hands and stuffing it into her mouth.

The bar was a crowded, noisy place, with swinging glasses and patrons that were surprisingly rowdy for the late morning. Marianne watched quietly on one of the bar stools as a young woman with pale, almost white skin and tomato red hair exchanged a few words with a man with a guitar and he promptly began playing a cheerful street tune. The other drinkers roared and cleared a small space in the floor, clearly this was a common occurrence. The red haired woman spun laughingly into the centre of the floor and began to dance, swishing her full skirt and kicking up her legs to display her bloomers, much to the delight of the men surrounding her.

Marianne looked on in fascination as a fiddler joined in the tune and the red haired woman danced faster and faster, squealing delightedly as she whirled through the bar with an abandon that Marianne, who had spent most of her life being apprehensive and tense, had never seen before. Finally the dancer finished with a flourish and curtseyed deeply as the occupants of the bar tossed her a rather large amount of coins.

The woman gathered up the coins in her hands and then seated herself in the empty stool beside Marianne. "Bartender!" the woman ordered happily. "A glass of absinthe, if you please."

"Don't you have drinks in that windmill of yours, Antoinette?" the bartender grumbled as he poured some acid greed liquid into a glass.

Marianne's ears pricked as she heard the woman's name. "_Antoinette_?" she gasped breathlessly before she stopped herself.

The woman twisted slightly to face Marianne, the glass of absinthe now clutched in her hand. "Yes, Antoinette," she confirmed, then frowned as she saw Marianne's eager face. "Oh, don't look so excited," she chided impatiently. "I haven't got any royal blood. My real name's Chloe, but don't go spreading that around." She drank deeply and leant back on the counter. "Who are you, then?" she asked.

"Marianne," Marianne began, then reconsidered saying her last name. You could never know.

"And are you a woman of the night, Marianne?"

"No," Marianne said quickly. "I only just got here. I saving up to go to America," she finished proudly.

Marianne could swear she saw Antoinette's lip curl. "Are you now? And where are you going to find the money for this little trip?"

Marianne slumped, defeated. "I don't know," she admitted. "I haven't got a job."

Antoinette laughed. "Follow me," she grinned, leaving a few coins on the counter and sliding off her stool. "I think I know a place for you."

&#&#&#&#

Despite her airs, Marguerite quickly concluded that Caroline was a whore like any other. She lived in a reasonably sized one room apartment and spent her days sleeping and her nights walking the street and going from bar to bar in search of work. Marguerite unpacked her things around the dirty mattress that had been assigned to her, and, not knowing Montmartre yet, had no choice other than to join Caroline on her rounds.

Paris, Marguerite established, wasn't that different from Calais when it came to whoring. Sure, the clientele was different and there was even the chance of the odd gentleman customer, but each man was the same once the pants were off and so Marguerite became one of the Parisian harlots with very little effort. Her tattoos ensured that she was easily spotted amongst the other prostitutes haunting the street corners, and, just as it had on the Calais docks, her fame grew amongst those who favoured her wild manner, liquor stained voice and tangled curls that even now smelt of salt and high sea adventures.

Several men had drunkenly inquired why starts and roses patterned Marguerite's creamy skin. Marguerite would smile and invent some seductive reason, though the truth was that even she herself didn't know. She found another tattoo parlour, one of the few that was in Montmartre, and, just as she had done before, spent any spare cash she had on filling in any possible gaps on her skin. Caroline would scrunch up her button nose and make some disapproving sound, to which Marguerite would answer with some seaside oath that made Caroline gasp pertly. Nevertheless with her new brand of Parisian fame Marguerite was soon earning even more than Caroline, which, if anything, served to make Caroline stop criticising Marguerite's tattoos for a few minutes at least.

Even though it was no longer necessary, Marguerite still found herself slipping a few coins from her customer's pockets when they were too drunk to notice, and no purse was safe from her if left unattended. Caroline, surprisingly, said nothing, but complained badly about everything else. Marguerite drank too much, she said, and her cigarettes made the apartment smell like an ashtray. Marguerite blew smoke in Caroline's face in retaliation and Caroline would cough prettily in protest.

Despite this, Marguerite soon found that Caroline was now paying a smaller amount of the rent, and Marguerite had the power to turf Caroline out if she wanted to. To Marguerite's own surprise, she didn't, even though there were plenty of times that she would have quite liked to strangle Caroline. Together they could live comfortably, she concluded, so there was no sense kicking out someone who admittedly did earn quite a bit of money.

Marguerite and Caroline were united in a mutual dislike, yet, both being shrewd businesswomen, they realised the advantage of working as a team. Caroline, as many slightly more upper class prostitutes did, danced in the taverns sometimes to attract higher paying customers and earn a few scattered coins. Caroline attracted a reasonable amount of attention doing this, even though there were plenty of girls who danced better than she did. There was one raven-haired girl in a particular that always managed to draw all eyes on her when she danced, and Caroline would withdraw to a corner, swearing slightly. Yet when Caroline did take centre stage, Marguerite would use the men's rapt attention as a chance to pickpocket as many as she could find. Caroline knew and would distract them as much as possible, until she and Marguerite worked together seamlessly. However, that didn't change either of their attitudes.

"We're not in Calais," Caroline admonished one early morning as she and Marguerite headed back to their apartment after a night's work. "You can't act like an unsophisticated streetwalker. You've got to have some _pride._"

"And that," Marguerite retorted, "is why I earn more than you. Pride's unnecessary. We sell ourselves, for God's sakes."

Caroline opened her mouth to snap something back, but instead let out a loud shriek as she tripped over a sleeping figure in the street. Marguerite burst out laughing as Caroline struggled against her ruffled dress and the girl she had just tripped over blinked bemusedly.

"That wasn't funny," Caroline insisted, which only served to make Marguerite laugh even harder.

Caroline fumed as she followed Marguerite down the street, while Marguerite turned and called back to the girl on the ground. "Find yourself a high-up place to work, sweetie," she advised. "There ain't nothing to be had out here."

Caroline gave an outraged squawk and walked the rest of the way in a huff.

"Just so you know," Caroline said pointedly when they had reached the apartment, seating herself on her bed. "I've got a… special customer coming tonight. Made the arrangements and everything. He wants to come here, so you better stay out. If you don't mind," she added, smiling sweetly.

Marguerite shrugged. "Suit yourself. Sounds like bit of a cheapskate, though, if he can't afford to rent a room for the night."

Caroline threw a pillow at her, which Marguerite caught deftly and slid under her head. "Why thank you for your concern, Caro," she yawned. "Now I have two pillows."

Caroline punched her blanket in frustration and crossed her arms, pouting. Marguerite turned her back to her and closed her eyes to sleep off the night before.

The first thing Marguerite noticed that evening when she stepped out of the tenement was that it was pouring with rain. Marguerite swore violently under her breath, knowing that rain meant a slow night. No one had any interests except staying dry. It was a wet summer that year and Marguerite was earning less as a result.

After a few hours of making the tavern rounds with little success, Marguerite admitted defeat and headed home, hoping that Caroline was finished with whatever gent she had been entertaining.

The sounds behind the door gave the impression that Caroline was not finished, and Marguerite turned away from the door with a groan. She was about to head down the landing towards one of the other apartments, when she heard a muffled scream behind the door and something that sounded like a body hitting the floor. Marguerite breathed out sharply and reached for the door handle. She may have disliked Caroline, but she was still family.

Marguerite had witnessed many things over the years, but she still jumped when she opened the door. A fully dressed, middle-aged man was pinning a struggling Caroline to the floor, one hand pressing on her throat and the other pummelling her ribcage. His head was down and so he didn't see Marguerite enter, her skin white beneath her tattoos and her jaw clenched with determination.

"All right, break it up, c'mon," she yelled, trying to dig Caroline from under him with her heel as if they were two fugitives in a bar fight. The man flew up with surprise and Marguerite used that moment to grab the back of Caroline's chemise and pull her out. Caroline, still shrieking, fell against the wall and her attacker launched himself at Marguerite's ankles.

Marguerite had defended herself in similar situations before and jumped out of the way, silently thanking the fact that drink had slowed the man's reflexes. Her lower back collided with the dressing table and she turned and scrabbled frantically for some object of defence as the man came at her again, this time fully on his feet. Marguerite gasped as the man's arms trapped her and then slid around her waist so hard she felt her breath being forced from her.

"What do you think you're doing, little whore, eh?" he slurred into her ear as Marguerite's nails tore at his sleeves in an attempt to free herself. Somewhere in the room Caroline was wimpering in shock. "Think you can steal from me? You'll pay for that."

"I doubt it," Marguerite choked back, driving her elbow back into his gut. The man roared in pain and his hold loosened, which was all Marguerite needed. Her hand closed on a rusty pair of scissors, she whipped around and instinctively plunged them into his throat. Blood burst from severed veins and splattered Marguerite's face.

The man slid onto the floor, blood frothing from his throat as he convulsed, horribly, and then finally lay still.

For a moment, no one said anything. Marguerite stared into the man's eyes that were now rapidly clouding over, not fully realising what had just happened. Caroline closed her eyes in horror and discreetly moved her delicate shoes away from the bloody puddle. Then, as if a spell was broken, both women started talking at once.

"What the hell is going on, what was that man hitting you for…"

"…Someone must have heard that, oh, Marguerite, what have you done…"

"…Bloody stupid, being brought down and not even defending yourself, how could you be so dumb…"

"…You killed him! My God…"

This alerted Marguerite to what Caroline was saying. "You're talking to the wrong person there," she pointed out.

Caroline sat down on her bed and glared. "Well, now what are we going to do?" she demanded. "That man was a money lender and he's got friends in these parts. They'll come looking for him."

Marguerite sunk down onto her own bed as the full weight of Caroline's words hit her. "Oh _shit_… we've got to get out of here."

Caroline gave her an incredulous look and then glanced down at the body on the floor, her lip curling in disgust. "We could go back to Calais…" she suggested.

"No!" Marguerite snapped immediately, remembering the gang leader and his battered crown jewels. "We could not go back to Calais."

Caroline raised her hands in defeat, sighing dramatically. "Fine. What do you suggest we do? After all, you did kill him. Actually, why am I worrying? I could just turn you in."

"Oh no, you couldn't," Marguerite replied warningly. "I did this to save you, missy, as much as I regret that now. 'Sides, they'd probably come after you, too. No…" Marguerite lay back on her bed, staring at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but the floor. "We need to disappear," she whispered. "Somewhere where they wouldn't look… Where they wouldn't expect us to be…" She smiled as a flash of inspiration crossed her mind. "What's the name of that dancehall, the one that's got the windmill on top?"

Caroline frowned. "You mean the Moulin Rouge? You want us to go _there?_ But that's really famous!"

"Exactly!" Marguerite burst out triumphantly. "They'd expect us to leave the city or go hide somewhere that doesn't get noticed. They wouldn't expect us to be at the Moulin Rouge. And we can change our names, I hear they give you a whole new identity over there."

Caroline's face slowly spread into a smile. "They only accept the best over there… You might not get in."

Marguerite chose to ignore that comment. "So, as for him…" she said as she stood up, indicating the body. "We'll throw him in the sewer, make him look as if he was robbed. We'll clean up the blood, but we'll be leaving here anyway."

Caroline raised her eyebrows sceptically. "Marguerite, he got stabbed through the throat. Anyone could see it wasn't planned."

Marguerite pressed her lips together for a moment, then rummaged in her small bag of belongings. "What are you doing?" Caroline hissed, but Marguerite shushed her as she pulled a small but sharp knife from her bag.

"This will make it look deliberate," she muttered. Without hesitating she slit the dead man's throat from ear to ear, effectively disguising the death wound to all but a trained eye.

Caroline gasped sharply, but Marguerite wasn't finished yet. "And to make it look convincing…" she continued, pulling whatever money she could out of the man's pockets.

"Um, I've got some of his money," Caroline admitted. "That's why he attacked me… I tried to steal some money from his coat pocket as he was about to leave. Turns out I'm not that good at it."

Marguerite rolled her eyes. "So _that's _why… Talk about stupid. Anyway…" She grabbed a handkerchief from the dressing table and used it to wipe the blood off her hands and face. "We'll shift him out just before daylight. Most people should be asleep by then."

Caroline's paled instantly. "And until then?"

Marguerite grinned broadly and settled herself back on the bed. "Well, Miss Caroline, it looks as if one of your clients is staying the night."

_Bet you never saw that coming, did you? Apologies for dwelling a lot on Marguerite's tale, a lot needed to be told in one go for it to be effective._

_References:_

_Reign of Terror: Post French Revolution period. So named because of the large amounts of executions that took place._

_Thenardier, Patron-Minette: Crooks in Victor Hugo's 'Les Miserables'. 'Les Miserables' spans a lot of events, the most notable being the July Revolution._

_See you all next chapter!_


	5. Chapter 4

Back to Cecile and Christine! The girls have really taken their own lives now. It's odd- like they tell me what to write. Devils on my shoulder, so to speak. Or an angel, in Cecile (Juno)'s case.

Parts of this chapter were indirectly inspired by Sarah Water's novel, _Tipping the Velvet, _and a lot of this was written while listening to Train's 'Drops of Jupiter', so I apologise if my poetic side comes to the fore. Music has a lot of influence on my writing (Simon & Garfunkel's 'Scarborough Fair' and 'Sounds of Silence' are very inspirational). Sometimes this influence creeps in, like it did in 'Devilry' and 'Treachery'.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Moulin Rouge (I'd have a lot more money if I did), Travesty, Tattoo, Liberty, Juno or any other character from the film, though this makes me very sad.

"_They said it wasn't for me."_

"_What wasn't for you?"_

_The hand with the goblet in it stirred slightly._

"_The wine?"_

"_Not for me. So I drank it. I want everything that's not for me."_

'_Tithe', by Holly Black_

It took Christine almost a full hour to walk back to her garret, long enough for her to conclude that it would probably be better if she rented a room closer to the Moulin Rouge. The stage manager had told her to return the next morning for rehearsal, where she would be given a brief run through of the opening dance and then join the other girls. The cancan would be the only dance where she would receive full instruction, everything else she was expected to pick up as she went along.

"You've got two days to learn the opening dance well enough to join the performance, and then another week to learn the cancan," the stage manager had told her. "And that's generous. If you can't do that, you're out. If you can, the seamstresses will make you a costume. You'll wear a spare dress until then."

She hadn't been able to exchange more than a few words of greeting with Nini before a tiny bell was rung and the girls hurriedly assembled in front several large doors. Nini had been at the front.

The main dance hall was strangely empty the next morning, even though at least thirty young women sat slumped on chairs or leaned against tables. None of the girls seemed particularly happy to be there, probably because they were in dire need of the sleep they missed out on the night before. Christine felt strangely refreshed, having treated herself to an early night. She slid through the groups of girls, who were wearing little more than chemises and practice skirts, and, finding nothing else to do, sat down on one of the empty tables. Her top hat earned her a few looks, but apart from that she went unnoticed.

The entrance of a disgustingly jolly Zidler caused the other girls to stand up from their seats, with much groaning and complaints that it was far too early in the morning. "Good morning, ladies," Zidler boomed cheerfully from the orchestra platform. "Warm yourselves up quickly, then we'll run through the cancan, from the top. Too many of you are still making basic mistakes. We're working for high-class gentlemen, here, we can't do anything by halves."

" 'We', my arse," an intimidating woman at the next table said in a loud stage whisper. "Who does all the work here? Unless he's running some business of his own… Some men have a weakness for that sort of thing."

The women around her burst out laughing, some heartily, others with their hands carefully covering their mouths. "Domi, you are a devil," a ginger haired woman chimed, looking positively delighted at the fact. She had a black choker around her snow-white neck and bright red boots on her feet.

The girls moved into the open floor space and Christine slid off the table, unsure if she was supposed to follow them. Her mind was answered by a gloved hand grabbing her arm. "_There _you are!" Nini confirmed, her hair and make up perfectly immaculate despite the early hour. "We've been looking for you."

Christine opened her mouth to say hello when the largest woman she had ever seen blocked her vision. Christine stared and bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. "Mome Fromage," the woman introduced herself, completely unfazed by Christine's reaction. "And you're Travesty, I assume."

Christine sighed and nodded. "Yes, so I am," she answered, shrugging. "Here, anyway."

"Everyone gets a different name here," Nini remarked breezily, walking towards a large set of mirrored doors and pulling Christine with her. "No use introducing yourself as anything else. The girls will call you by your stage name too, you'll find. Saves confusion."

Christine shook herself loose from Nini's grasp. "Mind telling me where we're going?" she asked.

"Dressing room," Mome Fromage cut in. "Got to get you kitted out for the night."

The mirrored doors opened to the shabby, messy dressing room Christine had seen the night before. Nini and Mome Fromage drew Christine into a reasonably uncluttered corner and then stepped back.

"All right, strip," Nini ordered. "Down to your unders."

Her words caught Christine off guard. "Excuse me?"

Mome Fromage rolled her eyes. "You've got to get changed, love," she pointed out, pulling a chocolate out of her dress pocket and dusting it off before popping it in her mouth. "No use dancing the cancan in a day dress," she said with a full mouth.

Nini tossed a white, fluttery practice skirt in Christine's direction. "Put that on while we find you something to wear."

Christine pressed her lips together and began to peel off the grey dress she was wearing. It was wool and, as Christine had bought it when she was sixteen, a little too small around the bust. Perhaps it was time she bought a new one.

Mome Fromage and Nini came back from rummaging amongst the spare dresses just as Christine had fixed the practice skirt around her narrow waist. Mome Fromage raised her eyebrows and Nini whistled softly under her breath.

"What?" snapped Christine defensively, wrapping her arms around herself despite the fact that everything important was still covered and Christine was far from modest. Christine had taken to wearing a plain linen shirt under her corset instead of a chemise, finding that it was comfortable and a lot less flimsy. Was that it? "Is it the shirt?" she asked.

"Oh, no, love, it's not the shirt," Mome Fromage said, her eyebrows so highly raised they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline. "It's just… You're thin, that's all."

"And you should fit in well here," Nini concluded, placing an armful of cloth onto a nearby chair. A closer inspection revealed it to be a dress. Christine picked it up for a better look, quietly recognising that this would be the first full petticoat she had ever worn. The dress was in dove-grey satin, a little too pale for Christine's liking, and the cloth was worn in places. Christine flipped up the hem and saw a ruffled petticoat in a faded shade of magenta.

"I know," commented Nini. "It's not the best, but it'll do for now. Wear that hat of yours with it. Once you've got a proper costume, you'll look like a regular little masher. A lot of men go in for that, you'll find, if you haven't noticed it already."

Christine glanced at her top hat that she put on a stool for safekeeping and nodded. She had to smile at the irony. To think, the traits that had been the cause of so many reprimands at home were now going to earn her money.

"Right," said Nini with a grin. "Lets see if your dancing has improved since I last saw you."

Despite dancing in bars and alleyways, Christine still found it hard to keep up with the other dancers. She could learn the opening steps easily enough, as they weren't very complicated, but she simply didn't have the training the others had and she was fairly sure that no one had been particularly impressed with her efforts. Nini and two other women called Arabia and China Doll both led each dance and instructed the others, and they were hard taskmasters.

"Garden Girl, kick that leg higher. A gent wouldn't be able to see so much as your ankle if you hold your leg as low as you do," China Doll said to a tiny girl whose face went bright red.

"Harlequin!" Arabia snapped a few minutes later. A girl with hair the colour of burnt toffee jumped. "Quit being so modest all the time. No man is going to want you if you keep acting like a country miss who has never seen a nightclub before, let alone worked in one. Where were you brought up, a convent?"

Christine watched intently, having no desire to be humiliated in front of her new workmates. She retreated back to her table when a break was called, and, like most of the other girls, lit a cigarette. She was watching the smoke curl into patterns in front of her when a manicured hand tapped her on the shoulder. Christine turned and saw that it's owner was the ginger haired woman with the choker that Christine had seen earlier.

"Hey, can I have one?" the woman asked, pointing to the cigarette packet on Christine's lap. "I've run out, and Domi won't give me one because she's a cheapskate."

Christine passed the packet to the other woman. "Sure, help yourself."

The woman lit one of the cigarettes and inhaled deeply, her eyes closed as if she was being revived out of a hundred-year sleep. "Thanks. You're new."

Christine laughed bitterly. "How observant."

The woman frowned, but let the comment pass. "What's your name, then?"

"Christine."

Ginger Hair breathed out a cloud of smoke, her frown deepening. Her makeup, it seemed, had been applied in haste, as one of her cheeks was dusted with a deeper shade of red than the other. "I meant your courtesan name, the one they'll call you here."

"Courtesans, is that what you call yourselves?" Christine replied coolly. "Fancy. My name here's Travesty, if you must know. And what's yours, Ciggy?"

Ginger Hair opened her mouth in indignation just as a low-pitched laugh cut through the conversation. "I like this girl," the intimidating joker from before said, striding up and perching on the table next to Christine. "She doesn't take any bullshit." The woman took a cigarette out of the corner of her mouth, adding her own smoke to the mix. "She's Pearly Queen," the woman told Christine, indicating Ginger Hair with a jab of her thumb and tossing a few brunette tresses out of her face. "And I'm Dominatrix."

Christine, who had breathed in at just that moment, choked violently. "Are you serious?" she croaked, coughing.

The woman glanced at her, completely unaffected. "Call me Domi. Most girls get uncomfortable calling me by my full name."

"Can you blame them?" Pearly Queen sighed, falling into a bent wood chair and stabbing out her cigarette on an ashtray. "Not everyone's accustomed to cracking whips for a living. Very trashy practice."

"This from a girl whose breasts nearly fall out of her dress every time she bends over." Clearly this appeared to be an old argument, though Christine quickly realised that it was a good humoured one.

"So!" Pearly Queen piped up again, reclaiming the spotlight. "What's your speciality, Travesty? Got anything exotic to offer the men?"

Christine shrugged, smoking her way through her third cigarette. "Nothing in particular," she admitted. "I wear a top hat, though, so I guess that's something different. I've been doing that for a while, it gets me clients pretty quickly."

"A top hat?" Dominatrix had grabbed the centre of attention again. " Put it on, then." Christine grabbed her hat from the table and did so, sweeping any stray curls beneath it. The effect was instant. Dominatrix grinned lazily and Pearly Queen giggled, lighting another cigarette as she did so. Her fingers were stained yellow from them.

"I think I know what angle they're taking with you," Dominatrix observed knowingly. "You'll be classed with Pearl and I, then. We tackle the rougher stuff. All the softies go for that lot," Dominatrix finished, pointing at a gaggle of younger, less hardened looking girls in the corner. The cancan dancer Christine had met in Zidler's office, Circus, was among them.

"Now, I'll give you a hint, Trav," Pearly Queen said after a few seconds of companionable puffing. Christine looked up. Was it possible to get a nickname of a stage name? "It's about selling yourself. Act as sexy as you possibly can out there, and you'll get the money and the reputation. It's not about dancing pretty. You want to do that; you might as well join the ballet, 'cause you'll just get pushed into the background here. 'Sides, with your look it's not going to work."

"Good, I had no intention of 'dancing pretty'," Christine answered as Zidler called them back into line. Swishing her practice skirt, she lost herself to the steps of the opening sequence. No, she was definitely not 'dancing pretty'. Pretty had nothing at all to do with her.

The next day and a half passed in a blur. One minute Christine was being drilled on the art of executing the perfect pirouette by Nini, the next she was being laced into her borrowed dress and pronounced ready for the show. Christine didn't know why she was so nervous as she took her place in the final row before the glass swing doors. She wasn't skittish by nature, and she would only be fully 'initiated' as a dancer once she had taken part in her first cancan. Still, she thought as she straightened her top hat and took a final glance into the spotty mirror, she had a reputation to establish. No one was pushing Christine Devreaux into the background.

&#&#&#&#

It was Zidler who lifted Cecile's garden ban. He had, as Elsa had feared, been alerted to Cecile's presence at the Moulin Rouge, but while Cecile was still too small and undeveloped to be appealing he didn't approach her with an offer of work. She grew slowly, and when Elsa saw Harold Zidler's lack of interest she was enthused, thinking that maybe Cecile was worth saving after all.

"Maybe he won't think you suitable," Elsa muttered as she laced Cecile into her corset. Elsa had avoided letting Cecile wear one until Claude had pointed out that like it or not, Cecile was nearly thirteen and having her run about like a child was becoming indecent.

"She's growing up, Elsa," Cecile overheard Claude saying once. "No matter how slowly. She's becoming a woman and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Though Cecile sensed that there was a darker message behind it, she had to admit that she found Claude's words fascinating. She caught herself staring into mirrors and other reflective surfaces whenever possible, trying to find evidence of the woman Claude had spoken about. Cecile's mother had been, in Cecile's opinion, the most beautiful woman in the world, but Cecile saw little resemblance in her own reflection. Her face was too round, her blonde hair too light and curly, her grey eyes too pale. No, Claude must have been going blind. Cecile was as plain as ever.

Two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, Cecile escaped the seamstresses' rooms and fled to the garden, amusing herself by chasing a few dead leaves as they moved in whirlwinds around the table legs. Her skirt whipped against her ankles as she skipped daintily around the few puddles on the ground, the chill of a past rainstorm still clinging in the air. For a few minutes Cecile moved in blissful abandon, seeking solace in the silence of the ice-cold morning. Her arms outstretched and her face turned heavenwards, she didn't notice that she was being watched until she collided, very ungracefully, with a tower of wool and petticoats.

"Now, who is this?" a breathy, musical voice questioned, causing Cecile to lift her eyes in curiosity. The woman she had bumped into was a vision in grey tweed and blood red curls, her ivory face fixed into a look of laid-back amusement.

"Oh, this girl?" Harold Zidler's wife, a sharp-faced woman with a nose like a rabbit's, was standing next to the beautiful lady- because she was a _lady, _not a mere woman- and fixed Cecile with a disapproving glare. "She's been living with the seamstresses for a couple of years. Nothing you should be worrying about, Satine. I have it on good authority that she doesn't steal, though I have no idea what she's doing in the garden."

"Oh, but she is _pretty_," Satine gushed, cupping Cecile's face in her lace-covered hands. "Look at her! Like an angel. What's your name, dear? Oh, never mind, I can already tell what your name is. Angelique!"

It was a completely incorrect assessment, but Cecile was too dazzled by the lady's beauty to do anything but nod. "Morning, mam'selle," she murmured, glancing at Satine's gloves. Cecile knew enough about fabric to recognise that the lace was cheap.

Satine laughed, clear as a bell. "How adorable," she twittered, patting Cecile's cheek. "Here…" Satine straightened and rummaged in her purse, eventually producing a carefully wrapped sweet. "Enjoy this, little angel," she said generously and placed the sweet in Cecile's palm. Satine then turned back to Marie and became much more business-like, Cecile now forgotten. "Marie!" she demanded. "Let's go home. This weather is enough to make me ill!"

Cecile watched the two women drift out of the garden, the sweet still clutched in her fist. After a moment she unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth, savouring the sugary stickiness of the thing. It tasted odd, of honey and rose petals.

The taste stayed with Cecile for the rest of the day, as did the image of the red-haired woman. "Who _is _she?" she asked of Elsa later, flopping onto a corner of the seamstresses' bench. "She was so beautiful!"

"Only yesterday you were saying that your mama was the most beautiful woman in the world," Elsa reprimanded, folding a mended chemise that was so thin Cecile was quite sure it was see-through. "Are you that shallow?"

Cecile frowned. "My mama _was _the most beautiful woman in the world," she insisted. "But this one came very close."

Whatever Elsa wanted to say next was cut off when the door burst open and a busty cancan dancer by the name of Antoinette sailed in, dragging an intensely pale blonde girl behind her. "My hem's come loose again," she declared bossily, holding out the offending garment.

"That's not all that's loose," Elsa muttered grumpily as she accepted the skirt and the cancan dancer swept out again.

Cecile thought it wise not to press the subject of the beautiful lady and settled instead on sewing up the lining of a smoke-grey jacket. "Who's this for?" she asked as a way of changing the subject.

This time another seamstress, Amandine, answered. "Zidler's found a new girl to add to the cancan line," she sniffed, not even attempting to hide her disapproval. "Wild young thing, nearly ran me over on the way to the dance hall this morning. And by the looks of the little bint Antoinette had with her, he's about to find another one. Poor thing. Did you see her face? Innocent as the dawn. I bet she's got no clue what she's in for."

"What is she in for?" Cecile asked quickly, but Amandine was silenced by Elsa's well-placed kick.

Over the next few days, Cecile kept an eye out for the beautiful woman with Marie, but apart from a few momentary glimpses in the window of Zidler's office, the woman remained hidden. Even so, Cecile frequently received a feeling of disturbance among the women of the Moulin Rouge, an incredible sense of _something going on._ The girls refused to meet her eyes when they came to pick up their dresses or passed her in the hall, and Elsa reverted to her more restrictive ways, insisting on accompanying Cecile wherever possible and forbidding her from entering the garden or sneaking about at night.

A few weeks after her thirteenth birthday, Cecile was getting ready for bed when two women entered the seamstresses' room. One was the thick haired, coffee skinned woman Cecile had seen in the dancers' dressing room and the other was unfamiliar. She had almond-shaped eyes and a snow white streak across her ebony hair. "Cecile, isn't it?" she cooed. "I'm China Doll."

"And I'm Arabia," the other woman said briskly, grabbing Cecile's dress from the floor. "Put this on," she commanded lightly. "Zidler wants to see you."

The two women walked on either side of her down the passageways, and Cecile had the uncanny feeling that she was being led to her own execution. After climbing what seemed to be staircase after staircase, the exotic courtesans shoved Cecile inside a small reception room and then left in a swirl of multi-coloured petticoats.

Cecile, tired and bewildered, sat down on one of the chipped bentwood chairs and gazed about her. It took her a full two minutes before she realised that she wasn't alone. A tiny girl barely older than Cecile was curled up on the opposite chair, her legs tucked under her so that she was almost swallowed by an orange and green petticoat. "Hello," the girl whispered. She had hair the colour of flame and a dusting of freckles across her nose.

"Hello," Cecile said, returning the greeting. The girl nodded slightly in acknowledgement and returned her attention to her folded hands. It was now that Cecile noticed the purplish bruise that spread across the girl's cheekbone, directly positioned over a swollen lip. "I'm Cecile," she blurted, more for the sake of having nothing else to say than anything else.

At this the tiny girl smiled. "I'm Camille," she answered. "So it's Cecile and Camille!" She laughed with a tinkling sound like a spoon tapped against a champagne glass, then composed herself. "Only I'm called Garden Girl here," she murmured, her voice lowering slightly.

"Are you a gardener?" Cecile blurted stupidly, mentally chiding herself for not keeping her mouth under control.

Garden Girl laughed again, her icy exterior seeming to crack. "No, silly. I'm a cancan dancer! Only my mama was a flower seller, I guess that's where they got my name from. I still know how to make a bouquet, though," she added with a hint of pride.

Cecile blushed at her mistake. "Oh. Is it…" She glanced at Garden Girl's bruise. "Is it bad?" she asked tentatively.

Garden Girl seemed to think for a moment, then shook her head. "No," she said finally. "No, it's not bad. Not bad at all."

The redhead lowered her eyes, and Cecile got the sudden impression that there was far more behind Garden Girl's words. She wasn't given time to ponder them, however, as Harold Zidler chose that moment to call her into his office.

"Why don't you sit down?" he suggested the moment Cecile had closed the door behind her. Cecile sat stiffly on the chair opposite Zidler's desk while the dancehall owner shuffled a few papers and tossed a faded playbill into the waste paper basket. "I hope you understand, Cecile, that you have been living here the past three years on my charity," he said while still looking at his papers.

Cecile gulped. "Yes sir!" she croaked. She knew where this was leading. Either she was about to be offered a job or she was going to be tossed out. She hoped for her sake that it was the former.

"Your brother," Zidler continued, examining a particularly pesky sentence through a microscope and frowning, "promised to send money to one of my employees every month if she kept you. You are aware, I'm sure, that none of this money has arrived?"

Cecile's eyes widened. "No, sir," she admitted. "But I work!" she gasped desperately. "I sew, all the costumes, and I've done that since I came, please M'sieur Zidler, I sew well…"

"Oh, I agree, poppet!" Zidler interrupted with an abrupt change of mood, his rosy face now looking remarkably like a huge, amiable Edam. "That's why your duties here are about to change. My… ward, Mademoiselle Satine, has a mind to go on the stage, and she will need someone to help her with her costumes and fix anything should a stocking tear, or whatnot. That's where you come in, dear."

It would be an understatement to say that Cecile's jaw dropped.

&&&

_Yep, Satine makes her first appearance. A bit of a twist for little Juno, there! Did you like the entrances of Dominatrix, Pearly Queen and Garden Girl? Oh, and did anyone pick up on Marianne/Liberty's little cameo in Cecile/Juno's story? Points for you if you did. _

_There was a tiny reference to Christine/Travesty in Marguerite/Tattoo's tale in the last chapter, but it was extremely small so a huge congratulations to you if you noticed it. If you do see these things, let me know, will you? I like seeing if anyone figured it out._

_References:_

_Masher: male impersonator. Very popular in the music halls around the 1880's-90's. _

_Edam: a cheese that comes in round 'wheels'. I thought it an appropriate description for Zidler._

_Amandine: this name is a reference to Jean-Pierre Jeunet's brilliant film, 'Amelie'. _

_See you all next chapter!_


	6. Chapter 5

I'm back! With Marianne(Liberty) and Marguerite(Tattoo) this time.The idea for the Diamond Dogs' sleeping area is borrowed from Lady McClellan and Rosemarie-ouisama's brilliant fic, _Saving Satine, _which I sincerely hope they update soon (again, not that I'm hinting at anything). A lot of this was also written under the influence of both Nirvana and Silverchair. You have been warned.

This chapter's quote is from one of my all time favourite poems. It applies to both Marianne(Liberty) and Marguerite(Tattoo) in more ways than one.

Disclaimer: Isn't it pretty obvious that I don't own Moulin Rouge?

_There will be time, there will be time,_

_To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet,_

_There will be time to murder and create_

_And time for all the works and days of hands_

_That lift and drop a question on your plate_

_TS Eliot, 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock'_

"Where are you taking me?" Marianne asked as she followed Antoinette out of the bar. Years later Marianne would curse herself for ever having been so naïve.

"Never mind that now," Antoinette said breezily, looping her arm through Marianne's and leading her down the street. "You'll find out. Right now, I'm taking you for a feed, 'cause I think you need it. Here we are!" she carolled, leading Marianne through the door of a shabby looking café. "Sit," she ordered, shoving Marianne into a chair. "I'm paying. Monsieur!" she trilled, flashing the answering waiter with a red-lipped smile. "A _croque monsieur _for my friend, here. And make it a big one."

A little more prompting from Antoinette had Marianne spill most of her family history, from her days of dancing about the bookshop to her disastrous attempts to apply kohl and her midnight flight from the house. Antoinette, it turned out, was a good listener, laughing at Marianne's descriptions of her brothers storming a model of the Bastille made out of chairs when they were children, shuddering at the mentions of Marianne's father going into a drunken rage, and even gasping in horror when Marianne recounted her brother Jehan cutting off her hair.

"How terrible," Antoinette whispered when Marianne had finished talking and was wolfing down her _croque monsieur_, the cheese making her mouth greasy. "And now you are left quite penniless, too! Marianne, it's just as well I found you. Come!" Antoinette placed some more coins on the table and led Marianne down the street again. She had a fast stride and Marianne had to skip slightly to keep up with her, much to Antoinette's amusement. Suddenly Antoinette sped up dramatically and all but dragged Marianne to the back door of a massive building complete with a garden, but not before Marianne had a chance to see the blood red windmill at the front.

"I know what this is!" she told Antoinette accusingly. "You're taking me to a whorehouse. You mean to destroy me!"

"Destroy you?" Antoinette repeated, turning to Marianne as she kicked the door open. Her lips were as bright as the electric lights on the front entrance. "Heavens, no. I'm _saving _you. An ingénue like yourself won't last two days on the street, not here. And it's a dancehall too, you know."

"Ingénue?" Marianne exclaimed, insulted, but Antoinette ignored the girl's protests and pulled her inside, shutting the door with a bang. The space behind the door was cramped with rickety staircases and cracked walls, and chips of dust and paint rained down from the ceiling.

"Trust me," Antoinette went on, folding her arms over her prominent bosom. "If you were out there, some man would have had you against a wall by nightfall, and he wouldn't have paid you, either. Not to mention you being snapped up by a bully-man who'd beat you as soon as he'd pimp you. Zidler may be a bastard when it comes to money, but at least he's an honest one."

"So you want me to become a whore?" Marianne moaned softly, sitting down on the nearest step and placing her head in her hands. It seemed an age since she had helped with the accounts at her father's bookshop. Then again, Marianne supposed she ought to have seen it coming.

"Courtesan, darling, courtesan," Antoinette replied, her voice betraying a sense of sympathy for the first time. When Marianne didn't look up, Antoinette sighed in frustration and fell heavily onto the step beside the other girl. Her skirts rustled and a few tomato coloured curls escaped from under her hat. "Look, I know its not going to be easy," she said, trying to see Marianne's face. "But the Moulin Rouge is the best place a girl in Montmartre can hope to end up in. We get treated right, and you won't believe how good the money is!" Antoinette smiled, nudging Marianne in the ribs. "Some men even pay in jewels! And the dances are such fun. Don't you want to go to America?"

Marianne looked Antoinette in the eye for the first time since they had met. "Yes," she whispered. It couldn't be so bad, really. Not like getting a poker smashed against your back. The mentions of dancing interested her. Though, Marianne remarked bitterly to herself, it couldn't be much like at home, prancing about like an idealised _Petite Dame Sans Culottes. _

That seemed to be all the proof Antoinette needed, because in a moment she was bounding up two stairs at a time, singing snatches of a music hall song. "You'll do well here, mark my words," she called back to Marianne, making a complicated turn on the landing. "Follow me and I'll get you ready to meet Monsieur Zidler. Pretty thing like you dressed in silks and satins, oh, you'll be a picture."

Silks and satins, Marianne thought. How bourgeois.

What Marianne saw of the Moulin Rouge was fairly shabby. Only the seamstresses' rooms seemed to hold any of the silks and satins that Antoinette had mentioned, and any jewels were locked in boxes and jealously guarded by the dancehall girls. The Moulin was, Antoinette assured her, much more glamorous in the parts that the public laid eyes on, which gave Marianne the uncanny feeling that she was about to become part of the greatest lie ever told.

The race through the 'backstage' area ended in the attic, where any girls who didn't rent their own room at a lodging house waited until daylight faded and they became the goddesses of their world again. The plainness of the rusting bed frames and peeling dressers almost made Marianne feel as if she were back at home, if not for the large numbers of girls dozing on their beds or squabbling around a few bottles of gin. It was here, behind a sheet suspended on a string for modesty, that Marianne was made ready to meet Zidler, whoever that was.

"This shawl is a disgrace," pronounced Antoinette in disgust. A friend of hers, a pretty, good-natured girl known as Harlequin, wrinkled her nose and thrust a day dress in Marianne's direction.

"Put that on," Harlequin instructed cheerily, stealing a sip of acid green liquid from a glass Antoinette was holding. "It's mine, we're a bit closer in size."

The dress was made from mustard yellow wool and when buttoned clashed fantastically with Marianne's hair. A straw hat of Antoinette's perched on top of Marianne's blonde bun proved too much. Antoinette raised her eyebrows critically and Harlequin, who was highly strung, giggled violently into the folds of her skirt. "You look like a pheasant," Antoinette said slowly, her hands on hips.

"You mean a _peasant,_" Marianne corrected, feeling distinctly annoyed.

Antoinette's lips thinned. "No," she stated. "I mean a pheasant. Harle, that dress looks wonderful on you, but for Marianne it just won't do. She's too fair."

Harlequin raised her hands in defeat. "All right! Let her wear her own clothes. Red suits her. But I guess her face will have to do most of the work."

Once again in her underclothes, Marianne gasped as Harlequin grabbed the strings of her stays and tightened them within a breath of her life. "Narrow waists are everything," Harlequin muttered in Marianne's ear. "There's a girl here whose waist is sixteen and a half inches!"

"Before or after someone laces up her corset?" Marianne retorted, gazing down at the bust she never knew she had.

"Well, I wouldn't know," Harlequin replied conspiratorially. "I've never seen her without. Well, maybe once."

Antoinette snickered and even Marianne couldn't suppress a smile. Her dress, she observed sadly, was remarkably plain in comparison to the vibrant colours worn by Harlequin and Antoinette, and her straw coloured hair didn't improve much even when Antoinette loosened the strict bun it was in. Marianne was sure she wouldn't impress this Zidler, but Harlequin and Antoinette both assured her that they could get her in. Somehow, Marianne didn't know wether she should be overjoyed or horrified.

"She is quite pretty, M'sieur Zidler," Antoinette later pleaded to a rotund man who peered at Marianne over a severely shaped moustache. "Just inexperienced. She'll catch on in no time at all, though," Antoinette finished, gazing over at Marianne who sat uncomfortably in the corner of the office.

"Oh, she is quite pretty, I agree," Zidler replied carelessly. "But since she's a first timer in the business… You would know, Antoinette, and you, Harlequin, that it's not like the street. Some gentlemen prefer, well, _more._"

"Oh, but she can offer more!" Antoinette exclaimed while Harlequin nodded encouragingly. "Our Marianne is _very _knowledgeable on the events of the French Revolution, and I know there are men out there have a weakness for historical types, I mean, look at me…"

Zidler, however, seemed to have stopped listening at one point, because he bent his head, frowning as if deep in thought. "Marianne, you said her name was?" he said finally, squinting at the aforementioned as if trying to predict her value. Marianne suddenly understood what a pig must feel like on market day. "Marianne… and she knows about _la Revolution Française_… Marianne, now there's an idea… could go down well with those bohemian types…" His head snapped up. "Antoinette, if this girl can pull it off, you may have just found a partner in the business!" he announced grandly. "The monarchy against the people, the peasants against the bourgeoisie! I give you…" He stood up and assumed the air of a circus ringmaster; "Marie Antoinette's great enemy… Liberty!"

Zidler bowed, and Harlequin and Antoinette clapped appreciatively. Marianne, on the other hand, felt like drowning herself in the Seine. Liberty? Marie Antoinette's great enemy? That hadn't been what she had intended…

In the background, Zidler was still fantasising about the new opportunities Marianne's persona would present. "I can see it now… A Jacobin costume, a nice little cockade… It's perfect… But only if she can bring in money." Here Zidler became much more serious. "I don't want to gamble on a girl who can't turn tricks."

Marianne jumped. She had forgotten about that part of the job. It couldn't be so bad, she told herself, Harlequin and Antoinette were both prostitutes and they seemed fine… It couldn't be so bad…

"What if she works the garden for a few nights?" Harlequin suggested, jerking Marianne's thoughts back into the dingy office. "Then we'll see if the men favour her."

"Harlequin, I could kiss you if it weren't for the fact that I'd have to pay you for it," Zidler said in a very jolly tone. "Get her ready, and we'll see how much success she has. If she can earn enough, she can join the dances. If not, then it's not going to work and it's not worth wasting my time on. Understood?"

Harlequin and Antoinette both said that they did, and pulled Marianne out the door again. "You've got a huge stroke of luck, there," Antoinette said in a singsong voice as she skipped ahead down the hall, Harlequin shushing Marianne along from behind. "Zidler doesn't usually give first timers and chance to prove themselves. Looks like tonight'll be the night you enter the business."

That was how, only a few days after she had run away from home, Marianne found herself in a corner of the Moulin Rouge's garden, covered in a borrowed dress and makeup and a hand on her hip. Few men had glanced her way so far, and Marianne trembled despite the large amounts of gin Antoinette had forced down her throat 'to help with nerves'. It all seemed like a horrible, horrible dream, and it got steadily worse.

Marianne had seen a few courtesans- whores- she wasn't sure what to call them- lead suited males behind bushes or through doors that Marianne knew led to the 'entertaining' rooms, and the combination of patrons' cigarette smoke and the gin was making her distinctly drowsy. As the minutes wore on she was vaguely aware of a man creeping up behind her and whispering in her ear. His gloved fingers fondled her neck and it took a moment before Marianne even remembered what she was supposed to do with him. Remembering Harlequin's words of advice ("Just do what he wants and be done with it, don't dawdle, if he's in the garden he's just after a quick one"), she pulled him behind a bush and prepared for the worst.

Her first client, because she had been told to think of the men that way, did things that made her head spin, and she couldn't imagine why anyone might find it appealing. She was a whore now, as the pain between her thighs and the money in her pocket proved, and Marianne stumbled into the dancers' dressing room feeling sick to her stomach and reeking of self-disgust.

Harlequin, who was in the process of reapplying her makeup, glanced sympathetically at Marianne as the blonde sat miserably at one of the dressing tables. "Feeling all right?" she asked kindly, but Marianne only glared. _No, _she wanted to say, _I am certainly not all right! I just sold myself to a man whose name I didn't even know, I feel used and cheap and dirty and I'm angry that I was too stupid to see it coming before!_

One of the other dancers, a skinny brunette by the name of Urchin, took a long, knowing look at Marianne and laughed, a thin, nasty cackle. "If you ask me," she said pointedly, coming closer to Marianne, "virginity is overrated. You lose it so quickly and then half the time you can't even remember when it happened. Don't you think?"

Marianne's brows knitted. Urchin's words had the desired effect, because all around the room girls were straining their heads to have a look at her, and Marianne caught whispers such as "Oh, a virgin, how sweet, it's been a long time since I met one," and "Well, judging by the state of her she ain't a virgin anymore." Marianne fumed. It was bad enough that her virtue had been sold to the first man who had asked for it, but humiliation was just too much. Before Marianne had even registered what she was doing, she had gotten up from her chair and slapped Urchin across the face, hard.

Urchin staggered back, holding her reddened cheek in shock. "She's crazy!" she caterwauled, staring at Marianne as if she expected the slender girl to produce a sword from behind her back. "Antoinette, you've brought in a girl who's touched in the head."

"Nonsense!" Marianne scoffed. "If you think that's bad, you don't know the meaning of pain." The scars on her back throbbed as if in agreement.

Urchin drew her hand back as if to prove that she did know pain by returning the slap, but at that moment, Antoinette stepped in. "Urchin, you are the last person to talk about being touched in the head," she snapped, grabbing Urchin's wrist. "You think we don't know where your mother is?" This caused a few titters; clearly Antoinette was drawing on common knowledge. Urchin's face reddened to match her cheek and she withdrew into a corner. "And you!" Antoinette exclaimed, rounding on Marianne. "Stop overreacting about losing your goddamn virtue. You're alive, aren't you?"

Yes, Marianne admitted, she was alive. She was alive and, now at least, amongst fellows. When Harlequin mentioned that she was heading back out to the garden to try and turn a few more tricks before the night was up, Marianne followed her, constantly repeating the same sentence in her mind. _Anything is better than home, anything is better than home, anything is better than home, anything is…_

&#&#&#&#

The cobblestones outside the lodging house were still wet with rainwater, and Marguerite swore a million curses as the body of Caroline's client bumped and slid across them. "Can't you pick him up more?" she growled at Caroline, uncomfortably aware of the smudges the dead man left upon the ground.

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" Caroline winced slightly as she tried to lift the man's legs higher. "He's heavy. Not to mention the fact that I don't like carrying dead bodies."

Marguerite heaved the man's shoulders onto a rubbish pile and wiped her hands on her skirt. They were still splattered, making her look horribly like an illustrated Lady Macbeth. "Haven't you ever disposed of a corpse before?" she asked Caroline pleasantly.

Caroline blanched, causing Marguerite to give a satisfied laugh. The only other corpse she had helped dispose of was that of a drowned sailor, but she still enjoyed having an edge over Caroline in some way. Lifting the hem of her dress in a most ladylike fashion, she stepped delicately away from the body in the alleyway and made a mocking curtsey. "Why, thank you, kind sir, for lending us your… services," she addressed the dead man cheerfully. Marguerite pulled one of the post-mortally obtained coins out of her pocket and flipped it in the air, watching it catch in the dawn light as she caught it. "They will be put to good use, I'm sure."

Somewhere, Caroline gasped. "Oh, you _savage,_" she breathed, with almost a hint of admiration. Her fleshy hands were clasped before her like a child at confession.

"None of that," Marguerite replied, blowing Caroline a careless kiss. "We've got to be far from here before Old Mother Gorbeau pops her nose out of the kitchen door."

Caroline paled at the mention of the concierge, and Marguerite pulled Caroline into the house and back up to their room with far more confidence than she felt. The dead could not rise again, she reminded herself as she and Caroline made the very clichéd exit from the house via the back window and a drainpipe. She had killed a man, but she would survive. He wasn't going to magically rise from the alley and start haunting her steps. Still, she couldn't help feeling distinctly uneasy, and it was with almost a superstitious fear that she tossed the bloodstained scissors into the sewer. Caroline chided her for leaving possible clues, but Marguerite never wanted to see the impromptu weapon again. "What do you want me to do," she asked Caroline hotly in defence. "Keep them rolled up in a pair of stockings?"

Caroline rolled her eyes, her corn gold curls bouncing in emphasis. "Never mind," she replied in a long-suffering voice. "Lets just go to the Moulin Rouge."

They kept mostly to the back alleys as they navigated their way through the hive that was Montmartre. Marguerite, to her disgust, found herself watching out of the corner of her eye for any sign of the police or the dead man's friends, but the friends didn't seem to be that dedicated and the police rarely cared when one creature of the underworld murdered another. The Village of Sin had its own rules, and as the saying went, there were only three of them. Marguerite found herself running through them in her mind as the Moulin Rouge drew closer.

_Never squeal on another._

That wasn't really a problem with Caroline, Marguerite reasoned. Caroline may have been notoriously vain and generally intolerable, but like all Parisian harlots Caroline knew that any word to the police would have its own consequences.

_Everyone for themselves._

The Bohemians were mistaken; there was no freedom in Montmartre. Everyone was a prisoner of their own wrongdoings. Truth was as absent as freedom and lies were the mortar that held the crooked taverns and bordellos intact. No one was to be trusted.

_Never fall in love._

That was the biggest rule.

The Moulin Rouge was a pulsing, electrified monstrosity and Marguerite instantly established that she would fit in quite well there. The main 'manager' (not pimp or bully-man, as he was quick to assure her), a fat man known as Harold Zidler, seemed delighted to have her the moment Marguerite entered the room, going so far as to pronounce her perfect while gazing hungrily at her tattoos. "Learn the dances, and you'll be earning hundreds of francs per night," he guaranteed. Marguerite raised one eyebrow sceptically, but said nothing.

Caroline too had no problems being taken on as 'one of the girls.' All she needed to do was introduce herself coyly whilst girlishly twirling a lock of hair around one finger. Marguerite was positive that Zidler had begun to salivate at that moment.

By the late afternoon, both Caroline and Marguerite were in and Zidler instructed them to go to the dressing rooms and "get themselves acquainted with the family." The dressing rooms were overpopulated and smelt of sweat, smoke and perfume, much like any average bordello. Caroline, to her horror, was pretty much ignored by the other girls, but it was Marguerite who drew stares.

A tiny blonde full stop of a girl actually stopped dead in her tracks when Marguerite passed by, causing her to be roughly pushed aside by a dark haired dancer in a canary yellow dress. A striking woman in black leered darkly at Marguerite's brightly coloured skin, and the girl next to her, a small, haughty looking girl with a head of ginger hair, actually sidled up and grabbed Marguerite by the upper arm, rubbing her fingers firmly across the tattoos. "Nice," she said after a moment while Marguerite glared. "I thought they were a gimmick of Zidler's, but they seem real enough. Where'd you get those done?"

Marguerite pulled the other girl's hand off and grinned nastily. "Wouldn't you like to know," she replied teasingly. "Fancy something carved into your skin, do you?"

"No, that's more Domi's style," a smooth, slightly bored voice drawled from somewhere behind Marguerite's shoulder. Marguerite turned to see a tall, lanky girl sprawled carelessly in a chair at one of the dressing tables, clad in a smart suit jacket over a coal-grey skirt and a silk top hat perched at a jaunty angle. Upon meeting Marguerite's gaze, she smiled coquettishly and tipped her hat. "Nice to meet you, mademoiselle." Her accent, bereft of the hard edge of the street, was almost too polished, and Marguerite suspected it was put on. "They call me Travesty," the girl went on to introduce herself. "I trust you and your friend there," she continued, gesturing vaguely in Caroline's direction, "are going to be joining us?"

Marguerite shrugged. "I guess so. Travesty, eh? No prizes for guessing what you do."

Travesty sighed theatrically and drew an elegant cigarette holder to her lips. "Quite. Welcome to the Diamond Dogs, my friends," she said airily, exhaling and waving the smoke towards Caroline, who fixed the other girl with a glare she usually reserved for Marguerite. "Whatever you want, we've got."

The words 'whatever you want, we've got' appeared to be some form of motto the whole Moulin Rouge believed in, and Marguerite joined the ranks of the faithful as easily as if she had been born there. She picked her way up the pecking order with spectacular displays of bad manners, and was soon either admired or hated by the other girls with a passion. Her stage name, as it was hissed with either distaste or reverence, was laughably uncreative.

"So, Tattoo," Dominatrix said to her one night just before the paired dances. "Enjoying yourself?"

Marguerite smiled and said that she was.

In the twilight moments between finishing work and falling asleep, Marguerite contemplated that killing Caroline's client was the best thing she ever did. She wasn't sentimental by nature, and pushed any possible nightmares out of her mind with liberal amounts of cheap gin. But as the sun came up and Marguerite lay on her bunk beneath the Moulin's attic, she would trace the vines that were inked along her wrists and swear that they still dripped blood.

Caroline, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten that there was anything outside the Moulin Rouge at all. She was given a pastel pink dress and christened Babydoll, which Marguerite privately thought said a lot about her maturity. Caroline bounced into the dressing room one night happily flashing a pearl choker, and for all intents and purposes seemed fully initiated as a Diamond Dog. Marguerite preferred to accept cash for her services and hid the amounts under her mattress, still endowed with a thief's sense of suspicion. Pretty jewels just invited someone to steal them.

"That's a pretty bauble, Babydoll," a dancer named Pearly Queen pointed out, pushing past Travesty in order to get a closer look. Caroline preened and held the choker out to be admired, revelling in the attention the jewels brought.

Marguerite, disgusted that Caroline seemed to be doing so well after only having been at the Moulin Rouge for a short time, turned her eyes instead towards a more isolated dressing table, one whose owner Marguerite wasn't sure of. She blinked, then looked again. Her hands twitched. A second glance caused her fingers to itch and her legs to stand up automatically, leading her to the table like a hypnotist's subject in a music hall.

Marguerite had promised herself to never steal from her fellow whores, but a solid gold bracelet in full view was just too much of a temptation to ignore.

The bracelet glittered in the candlelight. It almost seemed to beckon to her. Marguerite's breath quickened. The other girls were too occupied to notice anything, all she had to do was reach out…

"What _are _you doing?" a husky voice demanded, clearly outraged. It belonged to a woman about the same age as Marguerite, wrapped in an ivory dressing gown with a waterfall of blood coloured curls cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes, an icy blue, were narrowed accusingly.

Marguerite stepped back, hands raised. "Shouldn't leave your stuff out, should you?" she growled, her eyes still fixed on the bracelet.

The woman flushed slightly. "Cecile!" she demanded. A tiny girl of about twelve or thirteen emerged from a corner, a few pale blonde strands of hair escaping in wisps from her poorly made bun.

"Yes, mam'selle Satine?" the girl murmured, her eyes widening to the size of billiard balls at the sight of Marguerite's tattoos.

"Cecile," the red haired woman continued, plucking the bracelet and holding it out. "Take my jewels to Harold's office, and tell him I want to keep them there from now on. You can get them when they're needed. I can't keep my jewels here, because it seems that _some people _can't keep a hold on their jealousy." Here the woman threw a dirty look at Marguerite and swept up one of the rickety staircases.

"Like jealousy had anything to do with it," Marguerite muttered at Satine's retreating back.

Travesty, having witnessed the whole exchange with laid back amusement, came over and linked arms with Marguerite. "Bit uppity, that one, isn't she, Tattoo?"

Marguerite nodded and stealthily stole a cigarette from Travesty's fingertips. "So it would seem."

&&&&&

_Thank God that chapter's done! I had so much writer's block with Marguerite, it took me simply ages._

_As a matter of interest, I would appreciate it if you all (as few as you are!) could tell me who your favourite girl is and why . No particularly reason, I'm just interested in seeing how the girls appeal to people. I love all four girls in this (in fact, I love all the characters), but overall (as in outside this fic) my favourite cancan girl is Travesty, followed closely by Juno._

_References:_

_Croque monsieur: a French food consisting of toasted bread covered with ham and melted cheese._

_Petite Dame Sans Culottes: style of dress around the French Revolution that was a direct statement against the style worn by the aristocracy._

_Marianne: the name Marianne is a use French Revolutionary reference. Marianne was the name given to a woman in a painting by Delacroix called 'Liberty Leading the People.' The woman is holding the French flag and has come to represent the French Revolution, especially the central values (liberty, equality, fraternity). So the name was perfect for Liberty._

_Au revoir, mes amis, I must now finish an obscenely boring Modern History essay._


	7. Chapter 6

_Bonjour, mes amis _and welcome to the next chapter. I thought I'd write down the girls' ages, just in case there's any confusion. Marianne/Liberty is sixteen at this point in the story, Christine/Travesty is seventeen going on eighteen, Marguerite/Tattoo has just turned twenty and Cecile/Juno is thirteen. This fic will cover several years of their lives (it ends when the plot of _Moulin Rouge _would start, so no Christian, sorry guys), so they'll all be a lot older by the end.

Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge. Also, I realise it's absolutely shameless of me to use two Eliot quotes in a row, but they _are _from different poems… I don't know the names of the songs Satine sings, but they are sung by the character Ivo Novello in the film _Gosford Park. _They seemed to suit a younger Satine.

_Now that the lilacs are in bloom,_

_She has a bowl of lilacs in her room_

_And twists one in her fingers while she talks._

'_Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know,_

_What life is, you who hold it in you hands'; _

_(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)_

_And youth is cruel, and has no remorse_

_And smiles at situations which it cannot see.'_

_I smile, of course,_

_And go on drinking tea._

_TS Eliot, 'Portrait of a Lady.'_

Elsa said nothing when Cecile returned to their room that night, though she sensed that Elsa had known about Cecile's new position for far longer than she let on. And when Cecile got up the next day to begin working for Satine, Elsa still said nothing. It was as if the German seamstress was trying to sever all ties with her charge, and Cecile felt an odd sort of closure as she made her way to Satine's bedroom, as if she had somehow crossed an invisible boundary, to what, she did not know.

Satine's room was in the apartments occupied by Harold and Marie Zidler, and was one of only two private bedrooms in the Moulin Rouge that actually functioned as a place to sleep. The girls, Cecile knew, had their own rooms where they 'entertained', but none of them seemed to sleep there and all wanted to spend as little time in their rooms as possible. Satine's bedroom, however, seemed to be just that, her _own, _and for no one's comfort but hers.

Satine was awake when Cecile knocked, which was highly unusual, as most Rouge girls didn't bother getting up before the late afternoon. She was seated at her dressing table wearing nothing but a peach-pink dressing gown, her hair loose and curling around her shoulders. "There you are, angel," she carolled as Cecile entered the room, running a comb through her impossibly red hair. "Help me with my corset, will you?"

As Cecile pulled on Satine's corset strings ("No, _tighter,_ child, do you want it to slip off?"), she took a moment to drink in the surroundings. Satine's room, though small, was a sea of soft creams and pinks, with all old furniture artfully painted to seem new. The colours caused Satine's alabaster skin to take on a faint, peachy glow to match her robe, and made Cecile feel exceedingly shabby.

"You need anything more, mam'selle?" Cecile whispered after Satine was laced and buttoned into a smart, navy day dress.

"Maybe," Satine replied cheerfully, sitting down at her dressing table again. "Stay awhile, I'll tell you if you need something." Cecile, now at a loss for anything to do, settled into a rocking chair in the corner, letting it whip back and forth while Satine brushed her hair.

It became the morning routine from that day on, and Cecile stopped being The Seamstresses' Girl and became Satine's Dresser. After helping Satine into her dress, Cecile would straighten the room or sit in the rocking chair sewing while Satine chattered in her soft, breathy voice about anything from the weather to the book she was currently reading. Satine's purpose at the Moulin Rouge, however, seemed to be a mystery. Satine attended rehearsals but didn't show any interest in learning the dances. A few errands to the cancan dancers' dressing room told Cecile that she wasn't the only one who was wondering.

"Here, Cecile, talk to us for a moment," the girls would say to her whenever she entered. "What about that lady of yours, eh?" Cecile would shake her head and tell them that she knew as little as they did about Satine's future, causing them to give her bribes of sweets, chocolates and bits of ribbon. Some of the more hardened ones noted that Cecile was, as a dancer called Nini put it, 'filling out that corset', and started offering her sips of whiskey and gin instead. The alcohol loosened Cecile's tongue and told them anything she may have picked up, knowing that if anything she was giving them something to gossip about.

With this new routine in place, Cecile continued to get Satine ready for the day, though she began to realise that she served not only as a dresser but someone for Satine to talk to. Despite her beauty, or perhaps because of it, Satine seemed incredibly lonely. She would fill any silence with snatches of music hall songs, sentimental ballads about sad partings and wistful, romantic love. "_We shall never find that lovely land of might have been…_" Satine sang while getting ready for bed or pinning up her hair. "_I shall never be your king nor you shall be my queen… All that I can be… All you ask of me… Music in spring, flowers on a king, all these I bring to you…_"

In the rare moments that Satine addressed Cecile directly, for mostly she simply talked, Satine would inquire about the most random of things, such as did Cecile fancy this shade of rouge or did Cecile like roses. Once, upon finding out that Cecile was illiterate, Satine decided to teach her to read, but the lessons were erratic and Satine's teaching impatient, and as a result Cecile never learnt to read more than her own name. Satine commented on the inconvenience, claiming that she would have quite liked to be read to in the evenings like a proper lady, and Cecile shrugged in response and said nothing, there being nothing to say.

Satine still insisted on calling Cecile 'Angel' or 'Cupid', and slowly Cecile began to forget that she had ever been called anything else. Once, on a whim, Satine started calling Cecile Juno, finding the idea of being attended by a Roman goddess to be very droll. Satine seemed to do a lot of things on a whim. "Juno," she would say one day, "wouldn't it be lovely to have a pet bird?" The next morning she would return from the markets, beaming as she displayed two vividly coloured birds in a cage. "Look, Juno," she gushed. "See how pretty they are?"

Cecile thought that keeping birds in cages was cruel, which didn't stop Satine from buying a new pair when the old ones died, and another pair after that. They all had the same names; one Silver, the other Gold. Many years later, when Satine had prettily coughed her way into her grave, Cecile would go back to that room, and let the birds wing their way to an uncertain end.

"Little Juno," Cecile then heard Satine say in her head. "Why did you let them go?"

Cecile would bow her head and say that she did not know. But these things were in the future, and the Cecile of the present day, despite her young years, thought little of tomorrow. In that regard she already was thinking like one of the Diamond Dogs. There was no world beyond the walls of the Moulin Rouge. Why dream of tomorrow when tomorrow will be the same as today?

Even so, it didn't stop Cecile from wondering.

"Mam'selle Satine?" Cecile asked one morning while she was curled up in the rocking chair. "Why do you call me Juno?"

Satine, who was in the middle of brushing rouge onto her face, paused and frowned as if she had never thought about it before. "Well," she said finally, still frowning. "You're too young to be called Venus."

&#&#&#&#

Nini had warned Christine that business would be slow at the beginning, but Christine had underestimated the power of the cancan. As an uninitiated Diamond Dog, Christine was forced to scout around the dance hall and the garden for clients, whereas the cancan dancers seemed to have men simply falling into their laps, sometimes in the most literal sense. By the middle of her first night at the Moulin Rouge, Christine had only managed to snare two drunken customers in the garden, while on the street she could turn over eight tricks a night if the going was good. Christine thanked the gods that she had been born a practical girl. It would have been easy for her to be dazzled by the finery of the costumes and the décor, but Christine could tell that the Moulin Rouge was, above all, a whorehouse, and if she couldn't earn enough she would be out on the street no matter how good her dancing was.

The well paying customers were the ones who would actually dance with a girl before sleeping with her, and even though she hadn't yet learnt the paired dances, Christine figured that now would be as good a time as any. Armed with all the self-confidence and charm she could muster, she strolled through the dance hall towards a young man who didn't look a day older than twenty and seemed to have been dragged to the Moulin by his friends. "You look a little lonely there, sir," Christine breathed coolly, giving him her best, most devilish smile "Let Travesty help." Flicking her skirts the way she practiced in the rehearsals, Christine crowded him onto the dance floor, the young man looking two bewildered to even attempt to refuse her. Christine grinned broadly and twirled so that her petticoats fanned out to reveal her knickers. She had once heard a woman liken whoring to fishing, and if that analysis applied to work at the Moulin Rouge, Christine had just caught herself a carp.

The young carp of a man seemed so nervous that when Christine lead him to one of the entertaining rooms and relieved him of his top hat and tail coat, she was convinced she could have demanded double her price and he would have paid it. In the end she only charged him a few extra sous, just in case one of his friends told him he'd been duped. A beating was not something she needed on her first night.

A few men later and Christine was in possession of more money than she would earn in a week on the streets, even though Nini laughed and called her green when Christine proudly displayed the money in her tray. "Travesty," she said in a way that was both kind and admonishing at the same time. "Learn the cancan and you'll be earning this much in a single fuck."

Christine pouted in a false expression of hurt while she unpinned her curls from their bun. She resented having to take the time to make her hair high and neat enough to fit under her top hat. She was seriously contemplating cutting it short, and she felt very annoyed when Pearly Queen, who was sharing a bottle of whiskey with Dominatrix and an aloof girl called Spanish, recommended that Christine grow it instead.

"Why?" Christine growled, wrestling a comb through her now loose tresses. "I thought I was supposed to be a masher?"

Nini took the opportunity to add her thoughts, breathing out a rush of cigarette smoke in exasperation. "Travesty, m'dear, I thought an ex-stroller such as yourself would know that if a man wants to buy the charms of a man, he will go to a man, not a girl pretending to be one. The fact that you wear a top hat and suit jacket is all the more reason for you to look girlish. _'Specially _once the dress comes off. This ain't the streets, where a man will go for anything in skirts. Keep your hair long, pull your corset tight. You're not bad looking, you know."

Christine privately thought that she could land customers no matter how long her hair was, but decided to leave it long for now as she made her way to Zidler's office to hand over the compulsory sixty percent of her earnings. She had to stand in line for a while, as Harlequin was already in the office, being berated for not making as much as usual.

After two weeks Christine received her true costume; a soft grey fitted jacket with matching top hat and a charcoal skirt that, when held or flung up, revealed deep purple ruffles. The Four Whores and Dominatrix's cronies oohed and ahhed, admiring the easy way in which the skirt swished and billowed. Christine herself, who had never been particularly interested in clothes, was more excited about the prospect of joining the cancan line.

She was paired with Circus at first, whose former partner Mermaid had been shifted in order to dance opposite a potential new girl called Liberty. Neither Circus nor Mermaid seemed happy about this change in sequence, and the new girl didn't seem too enthusiastic either, preferring to shrink amongst Antoinette and her eternally giggling henchwoman Harlequin. Undeterred, Christine threw herself into the cancan; despite her Russian dance partner's critical sniffs that Christine had "not pointed her toes enough."

"And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, one, two…" Nini instructed the other dancers in the absence of an accompanying orchestra. "Three, four, Liberty, are you watching, one two…"

"Yes, thankyou, Nini, that will do," Zidler interrupted, causing the cancan to break off with a unified groan. The groan was one of either disappointment or relief depending on the dancer. "Ladies, individual performances now. Everyone else, amuse yourselves."

Feeling oddly deflated now that she was no longer dancing, Christine fell into a chair beside a slightly newer girl called Tattoo. "Think you'll ever get an act?" Christine asked for the sake of making conversation.

Tattoo shoved a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and brought a match to it. "Nah," she muttered after taking a drag. "Not that keen, myself. Speaking of keen, check out Twinkle Toes over there. Ain't she a sight?"

"Where?" Christine followed Tattoo's line of vision. "Oh! Well, isn't she fancy." The redheaded woman in question was receiving instruction from Chocolat himself while practicing a few basic dance steps. Despite being less well trained in dance than the more veteran Dogs, Christine was able to observe that the redhead's dancing was rather under whelming.

"That's Satine," a voice said bitterly. Christine turned and came face to face with Nini. "She lives with Harold and that wife of his," Nini went on. "But it seems she now wants an act."

Christine raised her eyebrows, even though having an act wasn't so unusual. The Four Whores of the Apocalypse performed several provocative dances and comic songs throughout the night, Spanish and Gypsy had a very exotic double act and skinny Schoolgirl did a rather childish dance with a ball. Even Circus managed to live up to her stage name and perform a short act upon a trapeze and tightrope. No one, however, got these acts without being a cancan dancer first, and the fact that Satine was getting a solo without being one was among the few things that could shock a hardened prostitute.

"What in God's name is so good about her?" Pearly Queen moaned, flopping gracefully onto the table. "Look at her dancing! She shuffles along like a crow on a fence."

Christine exhaled angrily, furious that someone with even less experience at the Moulin Rouge than her could gain so high a status. "In all honesty, I don't know."

Satine struck a pose and started a song Nini had first rehearsed.

&#&#&#&#

And so this chapter was ridiculously short compared to the others… The next chapter might be a while coming, so you have been warned. Anyway, let me rejoice in the fact that I graduate from high school in a mere two weeks.

_Au revoir, until we meet again!_


	8. Chapter 7

Once again, bonjour! With no further ado, onto the adventures of Marguerite and Marianne.

There's a design at work in all art- surely you must know that? Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusions.

_Tom Stoppard, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead"_

Marianne's initiation into the ranks of whoredom ended up being cheap, violent and scarring in more ways than one. By the time the sun peaked over the wings of the garish windmill at the end of the week and even the most eager man had returned home to his wife, Marianne had a spectacular black eye and a black mood to match it.

"My my," Harlequin observed when Marianne entered the dressing room after the last client had taken his leave. "A rough one in your first week. That's tough."

"Ah, best she gets used to it quickly," Antoinette said dismissively. "I suppose you're one of us now, aren't you, Miss Liberty?" she finished, giving Marianne a one-armed hug.

Marianne pushed her off and went to sit next to Garden Girl instead. Garden Girl, who was barely fifteen and withdrawn towards all but a very select few, turned her back and continued mending a torn stocking like it was the most vital thing in the world.

When a gypsy-faced girl called Tarot insisted that Marianne was sitting in her favourite chair, Marianne gave it up without a fuss and made her way to the bedrooms instead. The bunk beds were old and shifted with the slightest movement, causing a lot of arguments between the occupants of the top or bottom bunks. Tattoo and Babydoll, who seemed to be constantly at each other's throats despite being cousins, always made a great show of hissing at the other to stop moving before going to sleep. Marianne, however, had the bunk underneath Harlequin, who lay as still and cold as a dead body.

Marianne's nightmares had followed her from her father's house. Fingernails digging into soft flesh, heads falling into baskets with sawdust to mop up the blood, absinthe kisses, and skin, burning, burning….

Marianne awoke with her body slick with sweat and stuffed the sheet in her mouth to stop her screams.

Ça ira… Ça ira… 

The next morning was a Sunday and Antoinette practically dragged Marianne into the local church. When Marianne protested that she had never gone to church in her life, Antoinette merely laughed. "Nonsense," the redhead pronounced cheerfully. "We're not going to _pray_. We're going to watch Harlequin."

"Harlequin's at church?" Marianne asked disbelievingly. She found it very hard to imagine rosy Harlequin, with her china doll face and sparkling eyes, sitting piously and reciting rosaries.

"Yes, she is," Antoinette confirmed while walking Marianne down the street. "Harlequin's a convent girl, didn't you know?"

"You're kidding." Marianne shook her head. There was no way Harlequin could have been raised among nuns.

"No, it's quite true," Antoinette insisted. "She was thrown out, however, when she was caught doing something _very _indecent with a local stable boy."

"You _are _kidding!" exclaimed Marianne, but the sight within the church made her stop dead. Harlequin was indeed sitting on one of the pews, her hands clasped in prayer and her head bowed in concentration. "How does she deal with being a whore?" Marianne couldn't help asking.

"Oh, quite methodically," Antoinette answered with a giggle. "She repents every Sunday, leaving her free to sin for another week. Of course, if she dies on a week day she'll have a problem," she added as an afterthought. "Which brings me to confession. Liberty, this is the last time you'll think church is dull. Watch." With a brief nod to Harlequin, Antoinette swanned into a confessional.

Marianne, not knowing what else to do, sat down in an empty pew and gazed at the altar. Her family had not been church-going people, and Marianne herself had never prayed in her life. "People only pray when they want something," her brother Jehan would say. What did Harlequin want? _Dear God, _Marianne thought. _Let me earn enough money so I can get out of here._

After a few minutes, Antoinette breezed out of the confessional, looking very pleased with herself. The priest stuck his head out after her, an expression of utter shock on his face. "What on earth did you tell him?" Marianne asked as they walked out of the church, finding it hard not to laugh.

"Everything," Antoinette answered, adjusting her flamboyant grey hat. "I'm a good Christian girl."

"Including…" This time Marianne couldn't help it. She had to laugh, even though she had firmly made up her mind not like the woman who had brought her to the Moulin Rouge. There was a charming mischievousness about Antoinette that was infectious. "So," Marianne continued, changing the subject. "How much do you think a boat ticket to America costs?"

Antoinette instantly became serious. "You mean you don't _know?_ Heavens, Liberty, you've got a long way to go. Oh, never mind… I'm sure you'll do well at the business. I spoke to Monsieur Zidler this morning. He wants to try you out as a dancer. Apparently, he had a regular ask him who the pretty blonde girl in the garden was."

"And you think he meant me?" Marianne swallowed. Somewhere in the back of her mind there had been the niggling hope that she would go unnoticed.

"Why, who else can he mean?" Antoinette laughed. "Satine's dresser?"

Any further conversation on the subject was cut off as Harlequin came bounding up to them, her cheeks flushed from running. "Antoinette, you are _wicked!_" she gushed breathlessly. "Did you see the priest's face?"

Antoinette seemed rather flattered. "Yes, Harle," she said in a mock-ladylike voice. "Didn't you hear? Hell didn't want me, so the devil threw me back out."

The two dancers continued to banter playfully as they walked back the Moulin Rouge, Marianne following a few paces behind, feeling a little left out.

Later in the day, the Diamond Dogs revealed their favourite past times: drinking, cards, sewing and gossip. Swapping anecdotes seemed to the most popular form of entertainment. The girls sat around the tables in the dance hall with the male dancers and stagehands, laughing, smoking and telling dirty jokes. There was no need to make them up, Marianne realised. Their whole lives were one big dirty joke.

"Liberty, dear," Harlequin broke in at one moment, swilling a jewel green liquid in her glass. "Do you want to join a game of cards?"

"Oh, cards, there's a good idea," a girl known as French Maid interrupted, taking a break from flirting outrageously with a stagehand. "Tarot, can you do a reading for me?"

Tarot, who was engaged in conversation with Garden Girl and a girl Marianne didn't know, groaned and shuffled a deck of the worn, tattered cards that were her namesake. Marianne, on impulse, grabbed Harlequin's glass and drained it. French Maid had a look of such hope and desperation on her face when Tarot began her reading, and it seemed to Marianne that the more dreams a girl displayed to the world, the more foolish she looked. She had learnt very quickly how dreams amounted to nothing more than disappointment and piles of money.

"I'm going to read instead," Marianne said thickly, getting up from the table. "Is anyone in the bedroom?"

Harlequin, gazing forlornly at her now empty glass, shook her head. "There shouldn't be."

Marianne stamped the rickety staircase as hard as she could while she climbed, a strange moment of resignation overcoming her. She would never leave. From the moment she had crossed the bordello's threshold an invisible contract had been signed. Funny how that thought came without bitterness or anger. There was merely simple acceptance of the fact.

Marianne, now in the cramped, claustrophobic world of the backstage, pushed open the bedroom door, wondering absently if entrance into the Diamond Dogs would gain her a private 'entertainment' room. She had to admit that even though she would dread what went on in that room, the thought of having a personal room covered in velvets and satins fascinated her.

Harlequin had made a mistake. The bedroom was occupied.

A tall, impossibly slim girl sat at one of the cracked tables, her features illuminated by a shaft of dusty sunlight filtering through one of the windows. Her body was leaning slightly forward as one china-white hand held what appeared to be a newspaper, the other tracing across a few lines of text. Her lips were pursed slightly with concentration; it seemed whatever she was reading was causing her a great deal of thought. Her face, Marianne observed, had a confident, intelligent look about it, and her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, as if she couldn't really be bothered with it. The girl was wearing nothing but a corset, underskirt and stockings, and Marianne found herself blushing. She simply couldn't walk into the room and disturb what must be such a private moment. It would be wrong, somehow.

The girl leant closer to the paper, causing a few midnight strands to puddle on the tabletop. Her hands moved to turn the next page of the newspaper, but at that moment there was a creak on the staircase. The noise caused the dark haired girl to jerk from her seat as if Zidler herself had summoned her. Upon seeing Marianne, she instantly composed herself, settling instead for a rather devilish smile. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," she demanded, tossing a few stray curls from her shoulders. Her voice was husky and slightly drawling.

"Oh, Travesty, Liberty most certainly did not sneak," a voice in the doorway said. Marianne whipped around. Urchin! How did _she _get there? "She's been staring at you for the past five minutes."

Marianne grew as red as the Moulin Rouge itself. "I most certainly did not! I was just coming up to get a book, and didn't want to disturb…"

The dark haired girl; Travesty, Marianne supposed, merely shrugged. "Look, I honestly don't give a damn why you're there. It's Liberty, isn't it?" Travesty stepped forward and then stopped to fix a few pins in her bun. "You seen Tattoo or Pearly Queen anywhere?"

Marianne cast her eyes towards the floor and shook her head. Travesty finished fixing her hair and pushed by without another word.

Later in the day, Marianne caught Antoinette alone in the dressing rooms while the other girl was fixing her makeup. "You knew I wasn't going to go to America, didn't you?" Marianne asked quietly.

Antoinette sighed and dusted her cheekbones with rouge. "Yeah, I did."

&#&#&#&

"What in God's name is so good about her?" Pearly Queen moaned. "Look at her dancing! She shuffles along like a crow on a fence."

Marguerite groaned slightly as Travesty snapped back an angry answer. The Diamond Dogs tended to frequently bicker behind one another's backs, but today Marguerite couldn't find the energy to continue complaining about Satine the cancan-less dancer. "Pearl," she said imploringly, "pass the absinthe, will you?" Marguerite had recently become a follower of the wonders of absinthe. It was far superior to gin.

Pearly Queen pouted and shoved a dark green bottle across the table. "Fallen in love with the Green Fairy, Tattoo?" she sneered, lighting yet another cigarette. Pearly Queen and Dominatrix were in serious competition for the role of Chief Smoker in Paris.

Marguerite pulled a face at her and tossed back a glass of jade poison. "Fuck you," she said matter-of-factly, as if she were commenting on the weather. Pearly Queen chuckled and turned to gossip with Dominatrix.

Travesty leaned forward and snatched the absinthe from Marguerite's hand, resulting in Marguerite chasing her around the tables. Girls gasped and a few highly strung ones screamed as chairs were knocked over and tables bumped with reckless abandon, both Marguerite and Travesty laughing and swearing with a gusto that could only otherwise be attributed to sailors out at sea. "I surrender, I surrender!" Travesty shrieked when Marguerite finally caught her around the waist. "Just let me have a sip, okay?"

"No way, this stuff's mine," Marguerite declared, grabbing the bottle and trying to wrestle it from Travesty's grasp. Nini and Arabia had just started to take bets on the winner when Zidler returned from his office.

"Girls!" he roared. "What are you doing, distracting the other dancers from their work? We're losing time before the evening!"

Travesty and Marguerite ceased their struggling, Travesty looking slightly sheepish at being caught doing something so immature. Dominatrix, however, took the chance for another dig at Zidler. "It's sweet, really," the sadist commented to Pearly Queen. "The way he acts as if we're an actual dance troupe."

"Indeed," Pearly Queen agreed sagely. "A couple of sleazy, overpriced tarts who can kick their legs, that's what we are."

That evening, Marguerite was twisting in the arms of a tail-coated gent as she shuffled him across the dance floor. "Where did you get those provocative… markings?" he slurred into her ear, filling her face with whiskey-breath.

"Well, sir," Marguerite replied. "Not many people know this, but I did most of them myself." The man was getting on in years, with stale sweat already seeping through his shirt. His face also had the unfortunate trait of looking remarkably like the dead codfish Marguerite used to see for sale in the Calais markets. Gritting her teeth slightly, Marguerite placed a hand on his sticky chest and dipped her back in accordance with the dance. Money was money. A girl had to eat.

"Really?" The gentleman held Marguerite's elbow tight with one hand and used the other to trace the intricate designs on her upper arms. "It must have been quite painful, doing all those tattoos yourself. How did you stand it?"

Marguerite gently tore herself free, grabbed the man's top hat from his head and spun around. "It's not a problem," she murmured seductively as she stepped up to replace the hat. "I can stand a whole manner of… unpleasant things."

By the end of the night Marguerite had a wad of francs at her disposal that remained satisfyingly thick even after she had surrendered the required percentage to Zidler. It was just after four in the morning, and after all the girls had finished with their final customers the Moulin Rouge would close its doors. Most girls either headed straight up to the bedroom or joined their friends for a few words and cigarettes before turning in. Marguerite had finished half an hour earlier than most, and so joined Pearly Queen, Gypsy and Spanish at one of the now empty table in the dance hall. It was covered with bottles and half full absinthe glasses, the remains of which Spanish and Gypsy were draining. Marguerite grabbed a glass that was still reasonably full and did the same.

"The Green Fairy is my one love," Spanish declared in her thick accent, holding a dirty glass high in a silent toast. Gypsy muttered something and curled catlike into her chair.

Marguerite swapped stories and tobacco smoke with Pearly Queen until Dominatrix and Travesty joined them, evidently finished for the night. Travesty held her top hat limply in her hand and Dominatrix was missing a glove. "Someone give me a drink," Dominatrix moaned while Travesty settled herself on the tabletop. "That last one wanted the full arsenal." Spanish made a show of gagging while Travesty lit a cigarette, unfazed.

"I can give you that drink," an all-too familiar voice announced itself. Caroline stood triumphantly in front of the other dances, one white fishnet stocking crumpled around her ankle and her arms full of bottles. "Courtesy of the bartender," she went on airily, as if she was always presented with complementary gifts. "These were left over. But he said to share them out."

"Bugger that," Dominatrix retorted, reaching forward and dragging a bottle of what looked suspiciously like whiskey from Caroline's arms, a move that nearly upset the whole lot. "It's going to take a lot to get me drunk and miserable."

Despite Caroline's protests that the bottles were meant to be shared amongst all the Diamond Dogs, the other girls at the table followed Dominatrix's example and relieved Caroline of the remaining bottles. Within the hour, Marguerite and her friends were spectacularly drunk. Caroline, eventually relenting and helping herself to a few glasses of absinthe, had passed out, her head resting on the table. Spanish and Gypsy were conversing in their native language, their tongues so thick with drink that their words flowed together in an unintelligible slur. Travesty was nursing a bottle in her lap, her shirt hanging open slightly to expose her corset. When had that happened?

Marguerite raised a bottle of gin to her lips, her lipstick smeared unattractively across her mouth. Zidler was a very clever businessman, she thought groggily. He knew the girls would never have enough money to pay their way to freedom. Not while they had cigarettes and alcohol to keep them penniless. Marguerite took another sip and thought no more.

The next night, Marguerite was adjusting her dress for the next dance when statuesque Historic approached her with a rather interesting proposal. "I have a favour to ask of you," she said, leaning against Marguerite's dressing table.

"Yeah, what?" Marguerite prompted impatiently, still tugging at her bodice.

Historic sighed, reaching up to casually straighten her gold crown. "I know you're a thief. Now, before you start accusing me of lying," she said quickly, for Marguerite's head had instantly snapped up, "my last customer didn't pay me enough. I'm asking you to… obtain the missing amount for me."

"You mean steal it?" Marguerite considered the option. If there were more girls like Historic out there, Marguerite could see the start of a potential side business. "I'll do it, but it's going to cost you. Two bottles of absinthe, and make sure they're full."

One week later, the word had spread and Marguerite had pick-pocketed on behalf of Urchin, Schoolgirl, Polka Dot and even Nini. Her new operation in combination with the money she made through prostitution allowed her to get another tattoo to fill a gap on her arm. She was quite proud of this one; a rose with tears of blood dripping from its thorns. Travesty had laughed upon seeing it and called it 'gothic'.

"You think so?" Marguerite asked, admiring her multi-coloured shoulder.

Travesty opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a loud shriek from somewhere out in the courtyard. Flame-haired Garden Girl pelted into the dressing room, her eye makeup so smudged that her face looked like one huge bruise. "Chocolat," she panted, holding onto Tarot for support. "Cecile… come quick…"

Everyone was on their feet, trying to guess at the cause of Garden Girl's distress. "Who's Cecile?"

"Satine's dresser."

"The little one? What do you suppose happened?"

"I've no idea…"

"What's going on?"

"All right, you girls, move it!" the stage manager ordered, shoving China Doll and Arabia out of the way. "There's nothing to see here."

Chocolat pushed by, a small, battered looking girl in his arms. Garden Girl followed him up the stairs, sobbing, while the group of dancers buzzed like a beehive. "What happened to that poor girl?" French Maid asked, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

To everyone's surprise, it was Liberty who answered, a grim look on her face. "I don't know, but I can guess."

&#&#&#&#

_Yes, I just had to torture you all and end on a cliffhanger… You'll have to wait until the next chapter to find out what happens!_


	9. Chapter 8

Have you ever noticed that whenever you really shouldn't be writing something, it's impossible to get off your mind? I have. Anyway, a message from your author: read _Great Expectations. _Seriously. And _Portrait of a Lady. _I started them recently, and they are fabulous.

_Within the shadow of the ship,_

_I watched their rich attire:_

_Blue, glossy green, and velvet black_

_They coiled and swam; and every track_

_Was a flash of golden fire._

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'._

After a while Christine, armed with her highly sophisticated powers of deduction, decided that on the whole things were going rather well. Her eighteenth birthday had passed, her earnings didn't seem to do anything but rise, a wealthy gentleman had taken a shine to her become an almost nightly regular, she had managed to be a harlot all these years without becoming poxed or clapped and she hadn't been abused by a client in weeks.

In short, she was getting suspicious.

"Nini," she asked one Sunday afternoon when it was too hot to do anything but lie about. "Have you ever had the feeling that things are just going _too _well?"

The older woman groaned, shielding her eyes against a beam of light that was bouncing off an absinthe bottle. "Frequently," she said through gritted teeth. "I had one of those periods earlier. Now we got landed with Satine." Mome Fromage muttered something about bickering and gave Nini a light rap with her fan. Christine, not entirely satisfied with the response, turned back to reading one of Pearly Queen's Penny Dreadfuls. It wasn't an exactly riveting piece of writing. Christine liked adventure stories, but Pearly Queen favoured books that were sold under counters in the rest of Paris and bought quite openly in Montmartre, the ones labelled 'passionate'. She liked to keep them under her bunk with a secret supply of chocolate and Dominatrix liked to laugh at her.

Pearly Queen was currently poring over a newspaper with Babydoll and Arabia, laughing their heads off. "Look at all these notices for missing girls," Arabia chuckled knowingly. "How many of them do you think ended up down here? Look at this one, Paquette Lorraine… Hey, French Maid! Someone's looking for you!"

French Maid, her face an unbecoming shade of red, tried to look away as if she didn't care, but Christine caught a whisper of "he would."

Arabia, undeterred, read on. "Here's another one, look… Christine Devreaux, age fourteen… Do we have anyone here called Christine?"

Christine's head snapped up far too quickly. There was no way… Her family were not the sort… "Hey, can I borrow that?" she heard herself asking, reaching across the table and pulling the newspaper away.

Arabia's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

Christine tried to make herself look as bored as possible, while trying to glance at Pearly Queen. She had told Pearly Queen her true name only once, so she might have forgotten it… Pearly Queen stared blankly back, so Christine assumed she had. "Because I'd like to see if my cousin's in there," Christine lied. "I heard she ran away."

Arabia still looked suspicious, but she handed over the paper anyway. Christine, noting her frustration that her hands were shaking, took it and sped up the stairs to the bedrooms before Arabia could say another word.

It was stiflingly hot in the bedroom when Christine pushed her way in, and her stockings already felt as if they were sticking to her. Most of the girls had taken to simply wearing their underthings during the day, modesty not being a valued trait at the Moulin Rouge. It made little difference; Christine still felt like she had been thrown head first into a furnace. "Damn these corsets, damn them, damn them," she hissed, throwing herself into a chair at the central table. Her name couldn't be in the newspaper. It simply couldn't be.

But there it was, black on white. _Missing: Christine Devreaux, age fourteen. Last seen on rue de Cygnes… _Fourteen. The newspaper must be years old. Despite herself, Christine felt an odd pull on her heart. She had barely thought of her family since she had run away from home, and when she did, it was only in bitter terms. They had thrown her out, she had tried to assure herself. She wouldn't have been let back in. Or would she?

_Stop. Enough, _Christine told herself firmly. _This notice is years old. They've probably given you up for dead. You would just be married off, anyway._

Christine traced over the faded print, a few stubborn curls escaping as she leant forward. _They didn't want you, they never wanted you, they were just looking for you out of a sense of duty-_

A creak on the stairs yanked Christine back into the dusty bedroom. She leapt up from the table as if she had been burned, ready to invent a brilliant excuse should Arabia or Pearly be standing there. Christine breathed an invisible sigh of relief when it turned out to be simply one of the new girls. Liberty, she remembered vaguely. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!" Christine demanded hotly, trying not to sound too shaken.

The girl in the doorway went as white as a consumptive. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but was interrupted by the entrance of scrawny Urchin. "Oh, Travesty, Liberty most certainly did not sneak," Urchin sneered. "She's been staring at you for the past five minutes."

Liberty blushed furiously and stammered some halting excuse. Christine, now thoroughly recovered from her shock, informed the girl that she really didn't care about why Liberty was there, and pushed past to return the newspaper to Pearly Queen and Arabia. On the way, however, she discreetly tore out her parents' notice. _Never go back. Never!_

The dancehall was considerably louder when Christine returned. Dominatrix had evidently teased Pearly Queen about her choice in literature, and the two were now having a wonderful time screeching at each other. Dominatrix whacked Pearly Queen with some object from her arsenal, and Pearly Queen retaliated by kicking her on the shin and then bolting for the dressing rooms before Dominatrix could take revenge. Considering that she was short and somewhat stocky, Pearly Queen was remarkably fast.

A rather more serious argument was taking place on the other side of the hall between Babydoll and Schoolgirl. Schoolgirl had been raised in Ireland and spoke hesitant, often incorrect French. As a result she was teased by everyone, and this served to make her speak very little, which in turn made her a subject of ridicule. Her self-imposed silence was currently broken, and her fight with Babydoll was punctuated with loud English swear words.

"You lot think I'm an eejit just because I'm Irish!" she insisted.

"Oh, rubbish!" Babydoll returned haughtily. "We don't think you're an _idiot _because you're Irish, Schoolgirl. We think you're an idiot because you're not French."

This earned her a few laughs from those proud to have never left French soil, but Christine spotted Circus mutter something in Russian and exchange an angry look with Spanish and Gypsy, probably the only time the three acknowledged each other, and China Doll threw a paper ball at Babydoll's head. China Doll was more soft spoken than Nini or Arabia, but even so, Babydoll was going to pay a price for her cheek..

For a moment, the tension between the girls was so thick you could have cut it with one of Dominatrix's knives. Babydoll, upon seeing the resentful faces of China Doll and Arabia, paled and looked to Tattoo for support, who in turn shrugged and continued examining her new inkings. Christine found herself holding her breath, and by the expressions of Harlequin and Antoinette near by she wasn't the only one. Those who had laughed at Babydoll's comment shrunk back and tried to pretend as if they hadn't been involved. Romanian-born Tarot turned to Urchin and gave her a discreet but painful shove.

Then ill-tempered Gambler tripped Pearly Queen, Pearly Queen shrieked at her in outrage and the spell was broken. Nini poured herself some absinthe and the dancehall relaxed. Pearly Queen forgot her argument with Dominatrix and turned on Gambler instead. Gambler was tall, with unhealthy white skin and a pinched face, and though she was Nini's dancer partner she mostly kept to herself. Now, however, she towered over the stocky Pearly and the other girls cheered her on.

Where did they all come from, Christine wondered. The past was rarely spoken about, except by a few younger girls who did so in hushed voices. The other girls packed their memories away, folded and pressed without a crease, ready to be taken out and aired when time had passed enough for them to bear them. Christine took the image of her family, already worn and blurred like the newspaper clipping, and tucked it into some recess of her mind, never to be seen again.

That night Christine danced like a demon, so rapidly and with such aggression that Circus struggled to keep up. She danced as if she wasn't trying to attract a customer, as if she wasn't flicking her skirts up to give them a glimpse of knicker. For the first time in days she danced for herself, oblivious to everything but the throbbing music and the splashes of pink and green around her. When the cancan finished she all but fell into a spare chair, hoping that a rake didn't approach her with an offer. The world was still spinning too much for that.

She need not have worried. The band had struck up the showy tunes for the individual acts, and for the first time Satine took to the stage.

It was as if she was Eve and all the rakes were Adam. Never before had Christine seen so many men stare. As a routine, Satine's was fairly basic; a cheeky, comical song with a bit of suggestive dancing. But Satine simply had a way of performing that raised her above Circus' acrobatics and Schoolgirl's ballet steps.

"They look like little kids on Christmas!" Babydoll observed frantically when they were in the dressing room, peeping through a crack in the door and examining the rakes while her pretty mouth hung open in shock. Christine, who had returned to the dressing room to freshen up the kohl around her eyes, shoved the scandalised blonde out of the way for a closer look.

"Jesus Christ."

Satine, who had finished the last chorus ("Money makes the world go round, the world go round, the world go round…"), curtsied with surprising grace and glided through the velvet curtains, but the patrons did not seem to want her to leave. Eventually Satine graciously returned, throwing out smile after dazzling smile and warmly accepting the applause.

Pandemonium reigned backstage. "How did she _do _that?" was the main question thrown amongst the girls. Christine settled herself at an empty dressing table, equally mystified. There had been nothing remarkable about Satine's performance in regards to technique. Her dancing had nowhere near the vigour of Nini or the elegance of China Doll; her voice was pretty but lacked the power of Mome Fromage. What, then, had made her so attractive?

"Because Harold treats her like she's something special," Mome Fromage answered instantly when Dominatrix asked the same question. "The men here don't care about talent. They'll go for a girl who's dim as a blind bat provided she sparkles nicely. What do you think these costumes are for?"

Christine considered those words. It was true, the act was subtly different. For a start, Satine had been on her own, whereas most girls were accustomed to sharing the stage. The music had been louder, her costume grander (green, with enough feathers to make your eyes water), and everything had just seemed so much _bigger._ Almost as if she was…

Almost as if she was the star.

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Satine, who had a penchant for elegant gowns, would often send Cecile down to the seamstresses' rooms with a few sous and orders for lace to be sewn on to the sleeves of this dress and the skirt of that gown to be embroidered. Cecile, however, reasoned that all her experience in sewing allowed her to sufficiently embroider the gowns herself, and instead spent the money on food from various vendors that she then split with Garden Girl.

"It's not that I'm stealing," she said through a mouthful of steaming veal and gravy pie. "It's just… redistributing the money. I mean, she would have lost it, anyway."

Garden Girl nodded, her mouth too full to reply. The two girls were sitting beneath a window of the roof of the windmill, a safe distance away from the main hall. Cecile had found the entrance to the tiny attic room when she was twelve. "You've got to eat," Garden Girl justified once she had swallowed a fair amount of piecrust. "If Satine complains, just tell her that if you died of starvation, she wouldn't have a dresser."

"Exactly." Cecile licked a portion of the gravy from her fingers and wiped the rest on her skirt. The faint echo of a clock tower resounded under the cornflower sky, reminding citizens of the hour. Garden Girl gazed miserably out the window for a moment, then got up from the dusty ground.

"I guess I should be going," she whispered. "There's always a competition for the mirrors and if I don't get down there now I'll never have time to do my makeup."

Cecile regarded her friend through sympathetic eyes. Garden Girl was always so melancholy when it came to her work. "Are you ever afraid?" Cecile asked quietly. "Of what might happen, I mean."

Garden Girl paused, her hands remaining by her waist where she had been pulling at a few creases. "Oh. No, I'm not." Garden Girl's speech caused the scar at the corner of her mouth to pull; an ever-present mark of a client's brutality. The girl smoothed down a few more wrinkles in her bodice and spoke again. "It's just a risk of the trade, Cecile. It's better here than it is out there. Safer."

Cecile considered this while polishing off the remainders of her pie. "Do you think I'll ever become a Diamond Dog?" she chewed contemplatively.

Garden Girl, to Cecile's surprise, looked up sharply. The expression she gave Cecile was filled with sadness and something else Cecile had no names for. "For your sake," Garden Girl replied softly, "I hope you don't."

The next afternoon Satine had returned from an early morning rehearsal with the Diamond Dogs far quieter than usual. She said nothing when Cecile helped her into a simple white day dress, and only started to speak once Cecile had sat down in her usual rocking chair.

"They hate me, Juno," Satine whispered sadly, her eyes fixed on her ivory reflection in the mirror. "The girls. They hate me."

Cecile swallowed. Neither Garden Girl nor the other girls Cecile had spoken to mentioned Satine in complementary tones, but that would have been the wrong thing to say. The chair creaked as Cecile leant forward. "I'm sure you're mistaken, Mam'selle."

"Oh, don't defend them, you know it's true," Satine scoffed with a helpless laugh. "Don't think I don't see you running off to talk with them. The girls hate me, and they have every right to." Satine gave a strangled cry and buried her head in her arms. "I'm not one of them. Not that I'd want to be," she laughed again, looking up. "But it would have been nice to belong." Satine rummaged around her dressing table, the movement seeming to startle her out of her reverie. "Oh drat!" she exclaimed, turning around. "I'm all out of powder. Cecile, would you run down and get some?"

Cecile clambered off the rocking chair, her hand-me-down skirt rustling. "I'll be as quick as I can," she confirmed as she made her way to the door.

"Oh," Satine murmured. "Don't… Stay as long as you like," she finished firmly. "I want to be alone for a while."

Cecile knew she should have felt concern for Satine, but for some reason couldn't bring herself to be. Cecile was harsh when it came to priorities, and being liked was one of the lowest. Getting something to eat came first, and since Satine was well fed enough Cecile saw no reason for complaint. Cecile spent the remainder of the afternoon chatting to Garden Girl and Tarot and thinking little of the world.

She was kicked out of the dancers' rooms until the early evening when the girls were beginning to be chased towards the dressing rooms to prepare for the night ahead. Some went immediately to gain a spot in front of the mirrors, others such as foul-mouthed Tattoo and cool, independent Travesty refused to move, confident in their abilities to shove other girls out of the way. Cecile bid various dancers farewell and drifted out of the overheated rooms towards the gardens, leaving the ever-present perfume of cigarette smoke and makeup behind the theatre doors.

The evening was a cool one and Cecile closed her eyes, letting the soft air chill her burning cheeks. The atmosphere carried the fresh smell of rain and crushed flowers, and when Cecile opened her eyes it seemed as if the world was a watercolour painting over which someone had spilt water, and the colours bled together into an unfathomable grey.

Cecile was roughly shaken from her thoughts when a man with hands like dead chickens clapped her on the shoulders. "Well, what have we here?" he crooned into her ear, his moustache scratching her bare neck. Cecile started violently, and tried to pull herself away, but the man held her tight. "I don't think so, miss," he slurred, his dead chicken hands fumbling at the collar of her dress.

Cecile tried to scream, but another man emerged wraith-like from the gathering dusk and pressed his hand over her mouth. "Be quiet now…" the first man mumbled, who, having successfully loosened her dress, was now fighting her corset strings. "Be quiet, and we'll even give you your price… we're fair…"

"I'm not…" Cecile protested, struggling against the arm now clamped about her throat. "I'm not one of the girls… let me go…"

The man in front of her chuckled darkly and chucked her under the chin. "Don't try and fool us, angel face," he taunted maliciously. "And even if it's true…" Cecile winced as the man pressed his lips to her face, leaving her lips and cheek covered in spit. "A cute little thing like you is just waiting to be fucked."

They dragged her behind a wall and threw her to the ground, a dirty rag stuffed in her mouth to keep her from screaming. This was no idle whim. These men wanted to destroy her, to tear her limb from limb. Cecile was almost glad when one of them smashed her skull against the earth. Oblivion was preferable to the worst pain in the world.

Cecile awoke on a dirty mattress beneath a familiar ceiling. The blurred face of a woman swum into view, and when a hazy memory reminded Cecile of the face's identity she had never been more happy in her life. "_Elsa!_"

The bitter seamstress reached forward to gently push Cecile's hair from her face. "Poor, poor girl," she muttered, dragging a few blankets around Cecile's shoulders. "Poor girl, you're ruined now."

Cecile tried to move her battered limbs and instantly regretted it. Pain shot threw her body as if a thousand knives had ripped her skin. The light of the single candle pricked her eyes like needles, and she fell back onto the bed, a groan escaping from her lips.

Soft fingers gently brushed her face, then reached down to clasp her hand. Garden Girl. The red haired prostitute knelt by the side of the bed, tears leaving white streaks on her rouged cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Cecile," she breathed, her voice as cracked as her chewed-down lips.

Cecile turned her head slightly towards the older girl. That tiny movement alone took a gargantuan effort. "Did they…?" she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

Garden Girl leant forward, a few soft strands of hair coming to rest on Cecile's pillow. Their faces touched for the briefest of seconds. "Yes."

Cecile whimpered, unable to contain her tears. How shameful, to have something snatched from her that should have been hers to give. "I hate them!" she croaked, raising her voice. "I hate what they did."

Garden Girl lowered her eyes. "You won't believe how many girls hate them." Cecile wasn't sure if Garden Girl meant the two men who had beaten her or all men in the world. Garden Girl had a knack for always meaning far more than she said. Cecile clasped Garden Girl's paper-pure hand while the other girl searched through the secret pockets in her skirt. "Here," she said finally, placing a handful of scraps on Cecile's bed. "I found this next to you. Keep it. At least you took something from them."

Cecile's eyes flicked towards the little pile. Money. She had just turned her first trick.

In hindsight, Cecile knew that moment was the beginning of the end.

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At long last, another chapter! I'm in exams at the moment, hence the delay.

I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but bear in mind it was written under stress.

_References:_

_Money makes the world go round: lines of a song from 'Cabaret.'_

_Paquette: name of a slutty French maid in Voltaire's 'Candide'. _


	10. Chapter 9

Woo hoo, the chapter count has gotten into the double digits!

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair._

_Charles Dickens, 'A Tale of Two Cities'._

The Moulin Rouge was a realm bereft of seasons and untouched by the notion of time. The dances were performed and business conducted regardless of the date or year, and Marianne only noticed the progression of the months when she glanced into the garden and found the autumn wind tossing the leaves, followed by a sprinkling of snow upon the ground. Flowers burst into bloom and Marianne turned seventeen, then the blooms withered with the end of the next summer and were gone with the turn of the year.

It was February of 1895 and Marianne had been at the Moulin Rouge for almost two years.

The realisation was a shocking one.

"Well, you forget about time here," Antoinette commented lightly when Marianne mentioned it. The two were smoking cigarettes in the garden, shivering slightly in the cold. Antoinette took a drag, her free hand reaching up to brush some snowflakes from her hat. "Jesus, I've forgotten how long I've been a tart!"

Marianne leant her head against the icy bricks, breathing clouds of smoke into the crystal air. The interior of the Moulin Rouge would have provided more warmth, but morale had descended with the temperature and the girls were finding any possible excuse to remain outdoors. Winter was always a hard blow on the residents of Montmartre, and, though they were marginally better off, the girls of the Moulin Rouge were no exception.

The windmill had had her share of victims this year.

The first casualty was Circus, and hers was a loss the Moulin was still recovering from. Garden Girl, who seemed to have an unfortunate tendency for stumbling upon unpleasant scenes, knocked on Circus's door one night to find the Russian dancer spread-eagled on the bed, her tiny throat slit from ear to ear so violently that her head had almost separated from her body. Her eyes, wide open and blood spattered, were turned upwards, as if she had been robbed of one final glimpse of the sky. Marianne heard that everyone looked to the sky before they died.

On the night Circus was murdered, two deaths had occurred. Mermaid, Circus's defender, was so devastated at her slaughter that something within her followed her friend to the grave. She danced and worked mechanically, her voice silent and her eyes little more than empty pits. She drank herself to death three days before Christmas. She was buried next to Circus, with a half decent gravestone. They were later joined by a 'garden stroller' called Musichetta who died of syphilis. That was something to be said for Harold Zidler: he did look after his dead.

Marianne sighed, last night's whiskey and gin providing her with a very persistent headache as they sloshed in her stomach. "Do you think we'll get a good grave when we go?"

Antoinette let out a splintery laugh that turned into a cough. She had been battling a cold for some time. "Oh sure," she retorted with a slight splutter. The movement caused more snowflakes to tumble into her hair. "I can just imagine the inscription. Here lies Antoinette. She was a good lay."

For that Marianne elbowed her in the ribs. Antoinette dropped her cigarette on the ground and threw a pile of snow at Marianne in revenge. "Oh!" Marianne shrieked as an amount of icy water slid down her neck. "You cruel, cruel girl!"

Antoinette cackled with sadistic laughter, which was silenced abruptly when a snowball hit her in the face. "Hey!" she shouted, scandalised. "That's not fair! I was unprepared!"

Marianne ran in great, loping strides towards the dancehall, crowing with the satisfaction of having the last word.

The dancehall was in an uproar when Marianne entered. Zidler and Georges the stage manager were shouting, dancers, both male and female; were swearing, Marie was begging everyone to settle down and one of the young acrobats; a skinny boy of eight or nine, was crying.

Marianne tried to establish what the fuss was about, but with everyone talking over each other it was impossible to make out a single word. "Hey," she hissed, tapping Tarot on the shoulder. "What's going on?"

Tarot turned abruptly, her face showing that she was rather amused by the turmoil. "You know Ceres, the new girl?"

Marianne nodded, frowning. Ceres had appeared at the Moulin Rouge a month ago and had since joined the cancan line, though she was mostly a solitary being. "Yes, what about her?"

Tarot grinned viciously. Somewhere in the background Antoinette was exchanging a few hushed words with Harlequin. "Well," Tarot replied slowly, drawing out the words for effect, "she took off today. Gone without a trace."

Marianne was surprised. Ceres hadn't even begun to build up a reputation yet, and Zidler rarely was fussed about 'bolters'. Those who attempted to run but were unsuccessful were given a short, solid cuff and those were successful in their flight generally were shouted about, then forgotten. It was only new girls who ran and they could be replaced in seconds. Never was there so much uproar about one individual.

"Why does Zidler care so much?" Marianne asked, leaning towards Tarot in order to be heard over Nini's shouting.

Tarot burst into giggles, her hand clamped over her mouth in an attempt to prevent them. "Well, he wouldn't normally care," she chortled. "Not if she hadn't taken off with a whole heap of jewels."

Marianne gasped. "_What? _Does that mean my…" Marianne prayed her jewellery wasn't part of Ceres' booty. She had recently been presented with an elegant choker and was rather proud of it.

"Oh no, none of your stuff," Tarot reassured her hastily. "Just some necklaces and things belonging to the Four Whores and the Knives." The Knives were the rougher girls dominated by the likes of Tattoo and Pearly Queen. Antoinette had named them so for their sharp tongues.

Marianne couldn't help it; she had to laugh. "Bet they loved that. However, I'm sure the trollops deserved it."

"I'm sure the trollops deserved it!" Tarot mimicked mockingly. "God, with your high talk you would never think you'd been slumming it for so long. Talk like a fucking bookshop girl, you do."

Tarot had no idea how close she was to the truth. Neither did the men, who seemed attracted to Marianne's stage persona. As Liberty she was the muse of countless potential revolutionary leaders who at least appreciated the fact that she could understand what they said. Marianne would feign interest as they read their drafted speeches to her, tactfully not mentioning that she had heard the same argument a thousand times before.

Time had made a cynic of Marianne. Her father's revolutionary ideals were forgotten, as was her love for the bourgeoisie. Becoming a Diamond Dog had taught her that all men were the same. Harlequin still dreamt about being whisked away in the arms of a handsome prince, a mindset that Marianne joined Antoinette in mocking. Reality left no room for such romantic things.

"Oh, don't you ever think of marrying and leaving this place?" Harlequin sighed dreamily one night while sewing in the bedroom.

"No," Marianne answered firmly. "I shall never marry." She turned her attention back to repairing her frayed cancan skirt, a practice that was causing her a lot of grief. Marianne could read books longer than her arm, but couldn't sew up a simple hem without pricking her long fingers.

Across form her, Antoinette shifted in a rickety bentwood chair. Her hair was wet and sticky from the henna she used to achieve its violent shade of tomato. "Harle," she said quietly, tapping her friend on the knee. "We can't marry. Surely you know that by now."

"Why not?" Harlequin replied instantly. Antoinette opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by Travesty, who, having heard the conversation, came up behind Harlequin and slid her arms around the girl's neck.

"Because," said Travesty, leaning close to Harlequin's ear, "whenever your husband is late from work, you'll be wondering which one of us he's spending the night with." A quick pat on the cheek and Travesty was gone again, leaving Harlequin bright red in the face and Antoinette snorting into her mending.

"Sorry," Antoinette gasped when Harlequin frowned at her. "But it's true."

Harlequin set her jaw grimly, glaring in Travesty's direction. "Remind me to slap that girl one day."

Antoinette shrugged, lighting up a cigarette and dripping ash on her sewing. "She's just lucky she got in with the Knives straight away, that's why she's so cocky. 'Course, it helps that she's a bloody ice queen."

Marianne cursed gently as the needle slipped again. Sucking her stinging finger, she stirred and glanced vaguely towards where Travesty was sitting. The brunette was leaning over a table and laughing at something Tattoo said. She was still wearing that coquettish smile on her lips- did it ever leave them? Pearly Queen bent to whisper something in Travesty's ear and her smile widened, its devilry increasing.

_No room for such romantic things._

That night Marianne sat restlessly at her dressing table, waiting for the bell to be rung for the start of the performance. She drew up her legs and tucked them under her skirt of wine red velvet, her heavy tricoloured petticoats providing her with a decent amount of warmth. Harlequin had reverted to her usual bubbly self and was helping Garden Girl brush rouge onto her face while Marie did up Antoinette's corset. Antoinette always had her stays bound tight.

Marianne stared listlessly at her reflection in the spotty mirror. Corn gold hair tucked under a black tricorn hat, the crimson in the cockade matching the bloody shade of her painted lips and contrasting against the coal-black on her eyelids. The revolutionary her brothers had never been, Marianne observed with a bitter laugh, absentmindedly spinning on of the jugglers' clubs. Spinning sticks in her hands had been a nervous habit of hers since she was little.

A loud stream of cockney announced Nini's presence. She was arguing with the stage manager. "We need some new acts," she insisted, the bright red windmills of her dress glittering in the light of the oil lamps. "Something with a bit more danger, y'see. The rakes have lost interest in the acts since Circus isn't there to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapeze. Maybe a…" The black haired dancer saw Marianne spinning the club and trailed off. "There's an idea…"

She brushed over to one of the jugglers, fetching an unloaded pistol from his array of items. In a flash Nini was at Marianne's side, pressing the pistol into the younger girl's hand. "Can you spin this?"

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"Bloody hell! I'm turning twenty two this year," Marguerite realised one night with horror. Her shock at this increase in age was so intense that she nearly dusted rouge onto her eyelids instead of her cheeks. Pearly Queen shrugged at this proclamation and Dominatrix raised her head as if to say, _Suffer. I am._

"Oh shut it." That would be Travesty. She was turning twenty in the summer and was immensely proud of this fact. "Anyone would think you were an old maid."

Marguerite kicked the brunette under the table. "You shut it. Do you realise that I'm going to be thirty in eight years? Jesus, I'll be like one of those ladies who hang around the garden with wrinkly necks."

Her words had a solemn effect. The garden was full of former dancers and strollers whose legs were too old to perform anymore. They crowded in the gloom with their aging silk dresses as cracked as the stale makeup they slathered over their faces to hide their wrinkled, tired skin. The young girls laughed at them and made jokes behind their backs, as if youth was something they had achieved, not something time had merely blest them with. A Diamond Dog's silent enemy was age.

"No. Stop it." Travesty again. Her fair skin had turned an even paler shade of white upon hearing the word 'wrinkles'. "We shouldn't be worrying about that," Travesty went on, reverting back to her usual bored drawl. "It's not like any of us will see thirty."

That no one saw fit to refute. Pearly Queen pulled at a strand of red gold hair and examined it, as if she was already expecting it to be streaked with grey.

The conversation was prevented from becoming any more philosophical by Dominatrix bursting into the dressing room, her face flushed with fury and practically spitting with rage. "THAT BITCH!!!" she shouted, the words echoing throughout the crowded room. "THAT FUCKING BITCH!!!!" Several girls looked up, startled, but only Urchin had the nerve to snigger.

Marguerite let the older girl rage for a while, and then calmly enquired as to what could possibly be the matter. It did look rather comical, but the girls knew that an angry Dominatrix was something to take very, very seriously. Travesty stuffed a glove into her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

It took a while for Dominatrix to recover enough to give Marguerite an answer. "That little bitch!" she spat venomously. "Ceres. The new girl. She raided the bedrooms and went through all our jewels! She even took your choker, Pearl!"

Pearly Queen let out a strangled cry at the news, Caroline gasped and Travesty choked on her glove. Marguerite did none of these things, but was no less stunned. Ceres. She hadn't been a very prominent girl from what she had seen of her; a small, scrawny individual with hair the colour of dust. Zidler had only taken her on because Circus's spot was empty. She hadn't had the mark of a thief.

"How do you know it was her?" Marguerite asked, praying that she wouldn't be held in suspicion. Her status as the Moulin Rouge's resident thief-by-commission was well known amongst the girls, unless they had proof about Ceres' guilt she would be the prime suspect.

Dominatrix sat down heavily and began spinning one of her knives with deadly efficiency. "Because she's gone. Took off this morning, Zidler's asking around about it. Couldn't have been anyone else, could it? No one would so dumb as to steal a whole load of stuff without nicking off afterwards. Not even you, Tattoo."

Under the circumstances, Marguerite let that comment slide.

"What's been taken?" Pearly Queen asked frantically, already heading for the stairs. Caroline was hot on her heels, moaning something about a favourite necklace. That brought to Marguerite's mind the fact that some of her own jewels might have been taken. She shoved her cousin out of the way and thundered up the bedroom stairs, followed closely by Travesty who was swearing loudly now that she had spat out the glove.

The entire bedroom was in disarray. Jewellery boxes lay beaten and broken upon the ground, remaining necklaces and bracelets scattered in the dust. Nini and Arabia were already there, raving as they collected their remaining gems. China Doll burst into tears and Mome Fromage tried to comfort her.

A few broken clasps and banknotes crunched under Marguerite's boots as she made her way over the floor. Ceres hadn't been thorough in her crime. Marguerite's knowledge of the ways of theft revealed this to be a very rushed job, and Marguerite felt a twinge of pride at the knowledge that she would have done far better. The also appreciated the fact that she wasn't stupid enough to keep her valuables in a jewellery box. Hastily she stepped over the mess towards her mattress to check if her stash of money, some obtained through whoring and some through more illicit means, remained untouched.

She threw back the mattress and instantly didn't know whether to laugh or cry with despair. The money was gone. Every single franc. Marguerite's swearing almost drowned out Travesty's mourning over the loss of her garnet earbobs.

Ceres knew the basics of thieving after all. Well enough to know where a fellow thief might hide her cash.

_Ceres, you cunning bitch._

It was almost thought with a hint of admiration.

The next day Zidler summoned them all to rehearsal, despite the collective groan that he was answered with. The dancehall was chilly and the girls shivered in their practice skirts, shawls wrapped tightly about their bony shoulders. Urchin, Garden Girl, Tarot and French Maid were huddled together like chickens on a roost, while Liberty and Harlequin held their hands over their cigarettes for warmth.

"C'mon, Harold," Nini yelled. "Tell us what it's all about and then let us go home."

Satine appeared behind Zidler's shoulder, causing a rush of whispers the flood through the dancers. Zidler silenced them with an impatient wave of his hand. "I want to experiment with some new acts," he justified himself, then murmured an aside to a stagehand that Marguerite only just managed to overhear. "That poor girl, Circus. Do you still have her trapeze?"

&&&&&

Dun dun duuuuuun… I wanted a little side story about how Satine got her trapeze, and this was the start! Poor Circus, I feel a bit sorry for her, really.


	11. Chapter 10

Ta da! I'm back. Avec les histoires de Christine et Cecile. Yes, I realise that there were probably ten grammar mistakes in that sentence. Oh, and a word to the wise: never try and study World War I while listening to AC/DC. The results are highly unproductive.

_Why do gentlemen's voices carry so clearly, when women's are so easily stifled?_

_Sarah Waters, 'Affinity'_

In the underworld, it went without saying that any success you were likely to have came at another's misfortune. For Christine, her success came at the considerable misfortune of Nini's dance partner, the hard-faced Gambler. Gambler lived up to her name in more ways than one. At the Moulin Rouge she wore a dress embroidered with a clash of spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds, with a pair of dice as cracked as her voice hanging on a chain around her neck. She was also a very successful forger who ran her business during the day from an attic garret.

When the police were dispatched to send Gambler on a government-funded vacation, along with plenty of rumours that someone from the Moulin Rouge had tipped them off, it should have been an average arrest. Gambler would have received a few years in prison and that would have been the end of it. If Gambler hadn't decided to defend herself first.

She claimed she had only fired the pistol to warn the policemen off, that she had meant for the bullet to become lodged in the wall instead of in a young copper's chest. The judge, however, was unimpressed, and the Diamond Dogs joined the crowd at the gallows to see Gambler swing. She came off easy, it was agreed, her neck breaking with a good, clean snap.

Back at the Moulin Rouge, Gambler's execution paled as a topic of discussion in comparison to a much more immediate one: who would take Gambler's place? It was a highly prized position, as dancing opposite Nini meant that you shared a solo spot in the cancan. For a few days everyone was on tenterhooks as Nini debated with Zidler in his office.

Christine knew she stood a fairly good chance. She had been promoted up the rows over the past two years, and she got along well with Nini. Nevertheless, it was still a surprise when Zidler told her the role was hers. Spanish, who had been hoping at having a shot at the role, glared furiously and didn't speak a word to Christine for a whole three days. Christine blew her a kiss in response and told her that she was sure Spanish would receive some recognition some day.

Their friendship cooled after that.

Christine covered her soul with a layer of ice as hard as the diamonds she worshipped. It seeped into every crack and crevice, sealing them tight, hidden from the world of silk and grease paint. If she had a particularly brutal customer or a spat with one of the girls and the ice would fracture, she would dance until the world was a spinning mass of colour and all her troubles were stamped into the varnished floors or smoothed over by a casual, deceiving smile. Snigger, some called her. Her smile could kill a man.

Sometimes when she had danced her anger away she would return to the dressing room to find that her boots had chafed, scraping off the skin from her toes and ankles and leaving her stockings sticky with blood. "Never mind," Nini would say as Christine pulled off the crusty fabric, wincing as the fibres caught in the cuts. "Pawn a bracelet and buy yourself some new pairs."

Christine would smile at that. Did they really, she would say, believe that she could not handle pain? Mome Fromage would raise her glass as Christine went to seduce another well-dressed gentleman, allowing her legs and hips to do the talking for her as she manoeuvred him across the dance floor. "Travesty," Mome Fromage said one night with a hint of drunken pride, "doesn't have a heart. She just breaks other people's."

Christine dropped a theatrical curtsey and stalked off on the arm of another customer. For months she thought the words were true, and that she had no heart. What she did not realise was that her heart continued to beat within its confines of silk. All it needed was a prick.

The snow was melting when Christine finished for the night, giving way to the promise of spring. She left her room in the usual fashion; dressed merely in her underclothes, muscles burning from dancing and marks of her trade smeared across her thighs. A few sticky steps caused her to duck into a washroom that was actually meant for clients and give herself a quick once-over with a wet cloth. Never mind Marie's comments about saving water. Christine had kissed her last customer goodbye and she was after a few hours sleep.

The 'entertainment' corridor was lined with deep red velvet so thick that the heels of Christine's boots dug into them as she walked. A man came out of Garden Girl's room ("Thankyou for your services, madame." "M'sieur, I hope to see you again."), straightened his jacket, and left down the client's staircase, while Garden Girl, her hastily laced corset showing far more flesh than she probably intended, slipped past Christine and through the door that led to the backstage. Here there were no velvet corridors and mind numbing perfumed smoke, just wood and cobwebs and the odd rat or two, mixed with the sound of stagehands pulling and carrying.

Christine stepped onto an abandoned stairwell and jumped as someone hissed her name. "Christine! Christine Devreaux!"

Christine nearly tripped on the stairs at the unfamiliar sound of her true name. For two years she had been called Travesty and nothing else. Pearly Queen had been called by her stage name for so long that she claimed to have forgotten her real one. "Yes?" Christine said hesitantly, "Who's there?"

A young stagehand stepped into view. He had messy dark hair shoved under a cap and was easily taller than Christine, a thing that didn't occur often. There was something disturbingly familiar about him…

His face split into a smile. "Don't you recognise me, Christine?"

Christine stepped closer to see him better. A crooked grin, a mass of dark hair, a slight scar on his left cheek… "No!" Christine laughed with disbelief. "Lucas! I haven't seen you since…"

"Since we were kids." Lucas' grin widened. "We used to play together on the street. I kissed you on the cheek when I was thirteen, do you remember?"

Christine leant against the wall, trying to get over the shock of meeting someone she hadn't seen since she was barely twelve. "I remember," she said softly. "I said I never wanted to see you again."

"Now, of all things, you remember that!" Lucas said accusingly, as if Christine had done him a great personal wrong. Christine had to laugh. Lucas expression softened, and he moved closer to her. "I know you didn't see us boys later, but we did." He looked away. "You looked like such a lady. Half the boys were in love with you."

Something in his voice made Christine wary. "Are you trying to tell me you were one of them?" she whispered, dreading the answer. He may have grown, but Lucas hadn't changed much since being a mere _gamin. _

He avoided her gaze. "Christine, when you disappeared we all thought you had died…" Lucas was close, now. Too close. _Fuck, _Christine thought. _This is not good._ His hand brushed her arm with a gentility a good lot of her customers lacked. Christine swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. Why couldn't she just move away? "And now…" Lucas continued.

"Now I'm a whore." Christine forced herself to step away, to head for the next stair, to do anything but remain there on the landing, not knowing where to look. "I'm a prostitute, tart, harlot, strumpet, trollop, slut, whatever you want to call it. I'm back in the gutter again and I'm even worse off than you. Are you happy now?" Christine realised she was shouting, but had already been said. Slipping slightly, she turned and raced up the stairs.

Behind her, Lucas was running. "Christine, wait!" he called, just loud enough to be heard by her and remain unheard by the other stagehands. "That's not what I meant!" Christine payed him no heed.

He caught her on the next landing, and pressed his lips to hers before she even realised what was happening.

At first Christine thought, dizzily, that this was something terribly wrong. Zidler had forbidden the girls to receive male contact without being paid for it; in remaining where she was, Christine was breaking the rules. Her second thought was that she did not care. She had never been one for rules anyway. Christine found herself gripping Lucas' arms as she gave in to the kiss.

Reality came flooding back when they broke apart. "Lucas… this…" Their faces were still touching. If anyone came down the stairs now Christine could be in serious danger of getting kicked out of the Moulin Rouge. "We can't."

"What?" Lucas asked, surprised, but Christine just pushed him out of the way. "Christine…"

Christine whipped around, feeling much more confident now that she was a few inches away from him. In her chest the ice began to set in. "Forget it!" she cried, with a small laugh. "Forget this, forget me. You're a stagehand, and I'm a prostitute who fancies herself a dancer. And if you don't forget me, I may be out on the street again, yes, Lucas, I've worked the streets, and I'm not risking that for you!"

Lucas's face fell. This way he reminded Christine so much of a little boy. A little boy who lost his princess, only to find her again in a far more unattainable position than she was before. Christine sighed in frustration. _Men!_ They were all the same, all of them. Lucas was just the same as all the clients she ever had. They all wanted to _possess _her.

Too bad that Lucas found a girl who could never be his. "Christine…"

Christine stepped towards him, feeling the air grow thick with the raw electricity of anticipation. Slowly, she kissed him, a small, almost invisible kiss. Not because she loved him. She kissed him because for once in her life she was able to kiss someone not because she was getting paid for it, but simply because she wanted to.

She knew, then, that she would never fall in love.

"Call me Travesty," she said gently, looking Lucas in the eye for the first time since he had spoken to her. "It will make it easier to forget."

Christine turned away from him and climbed the stairs again, step by creaking step.

She did not want to cry. She was Christine Devreaux, among the toughest of Montmartre bitches, and she did not cry. It was inexplicable to her, then, why she sat down heavily on the window bench, her head pressed against the icy glass, and let go of the tears she had been holding on to for a very long time.

&#&#&#&#

When Cecile had returned to Satine's room two years ago, her body stained with blood and bruises, Satine had fussed and cooed, rubbing balm onto Cecile's broken skin and fixing her hair as if Cecile was a porcelain doll who had been dropped on a flag stoned floor. Cecile accepted the helping hands, allowing herself to cry out her humiliation into Satine's perfume drenched bodice. Satine stroked her cheek and told her all would be well.

"There there… It's all over now, Juno. Everything's over now."

_Everything's over now. _Cecile would repeat those words as she lay in bed, counting the cracks on the ceiling, hearing the shrieks and thumping mattresses on the floor below. _Everything's over now. _Everything was as it was.

Except, of course, it wasn't.

Cecile was almost fifteen. By all expectations, she should have been a Diamond Dog by now. Garden Girl had started taking customers when she was barely thirteen, and Tarot had walked the streets at twelve, though Garden Girl assured Cecile this was rare. But as Satine's popularity increased, so did her demands on Cecile, and soon she was required to help Satine make several costume changes a night. When poor, tragic Mermaid drank her way into an early grave, the Diamond Dogs grinned at Cecile, thinking she would take her place.

"She's a pretty one."

"Aye. All the men love angels."

But Cecile did not move into the cancan line. That night Cecile overheard a fierce argument between Satine and Zidler.

"I'm not letting Cecile go! I need her!"

"But, duckling, it was always intended that she… I need her for the Dogs; the men won't be able to get enough of her! Besides, she's getting older… Surely, if you need a dresser, there are other little girls?"

"I've seen how men look at her, you don't need to tell me! They look as if they want to gobble her up. It's bad enough that two men went and ra…" Here Satine broke off. To Cecile's knowledge Zidler had no idea that she had been 'damaged goods' for almost two years.

Suddenly there was a smash, and a roar. Cecile leapt away from the door as if she had been burned. "YOU DARE DEFY ME?" Zidler roared. "After all that I have done for you! My wife and I took you in as an act of charity. You could have worked your way to the top and been ripped apart like all the other girls. I did you a great favour in putting you on the stage, Satine. Now in return I want a new girl, and by Heaven, that one's too good to waste!"

The next day, Cecile came to rehearsal in a practice skirt and new corset.

"Yes?" Mome Fromage kindly. "Do you want to know where Satine is?"

Satine. She was simply the extension of Satine. How that was going to change. Cecile raised her head and looked at the other dancers with all the defiance of an adolescent. "I'm Juno," she said defiantly. "Zidler says I'm going to be a Diamond Dog."

Garden Girl pushed past the Four Whores, her hair in disarray. "Juno," she whispered. "I guess you've come to Hell."

The first man Cecile 'harnessed' was old enough to be her grandfather, and treated her accordingly. He told her he liked angelic young girls, especially ones who looked liked his great-niece. Cecile pitied her, whoever she was, and wondered whether the great-niece knew that her granduncle was lusting after her. Cecile hoped she did not.

By the end of the night Cecile felt utterly wretched, and emphasised this to the world by being violently sick in the dressing room. She would have gotten her borrowed dress soiled had Marie not had the foresight to place the washbowl in front of her.

"That would be the gin, dearie," the aging woman said. "I told them not to give you so much." It was a tradition in the Moulin Rouge for each of the Diamond Dogs to offer first timers a sip of their drink before heading out, and already Cecile's head had begun to pound.

If there was one consolation in her work, it was dancing. She had seen the girls rehearse the cancan since she was twelve years old, and now was finally going to be a part of it. There was something intoxicating about jumping around the hall, challenging other festively dressed creatures into attempting to outdo you. At all other times Cecile knew who she truly was; a nervous, soft-spoken girl in the clothes of a woman twice her age. The cancan was the only time that she felt truly transformed into the being the patrons saw her to be. A pity it was always over so quickly.

It was Elsa's friend Claude who brought Cecile's costume down from the seamstresses' rooms. It was made out of heavy blue-grey silk with a fuchsia petticoat that nearly swallowed her. A stiff pair of white wings protruded from the back. Cecile was named after a goddess but looked like a man's distorted angel. She fitted the image perfectly: a seraph, fallen and held on earth for all eternity, a cherub chained in Hell.

"Angel, angel, I'm always a bloody angel!" she protested petulantly to Garden Girl one night. She had taken a few drags from Tarot's cigarettes, and the bitter taste of tobacco was in her mouth. "They always want the same thing." 'They' did not need to be named. "Are they so blind?" Cecile reached towards Tarot and Tarot passed the cigarette over without a word. "I'm a… I'm one of you." She couldn't bring herself to refer to herself as 'whore'. Not yet.

"Don't flatter yourself," Garden Girl replied grimly as she bound her bloody toes. A man had smashed a bottle of absinthe and made her dance on the shards. "It's not you they want."

Cecile looked at Garden Girl's feet and shuddered. Her bruises may have faded long ago, but their ghosts remained forever painted on her skin. Whenever a man held her, whenever she was away from the thrumming safety of the dance hall and in her silk lined room, she expected to have her wings crushed and shredded, to have gouges carved into her cheeks. It was her fragility that drew men. Angels are easily destroyed. How she longed to be as strong and aggressive as Nini or Arabia! No one would dare hurt them.

"Is that really what you think?" Tarot snorted dismissively when Cecile voiced this opinion to her. "Ha! They act tough, but just you wait, when they take off their dresses they have scars all down their backs." Tarot didn't believe in a soft approach to life.

If there was one thing that was for certain, it was that Satine would never speak to Cecile again. Cecile didn't know whether it was guilt that she had let Cecile go so easily, or anger at how Cecile had merely accepted her fate. Cecile had realised long ago that, despite Elsa's efforts, she had been destined for the Diamond Dogs from the start. It sickened her, how innocent she had been the night it all went to hell. You grew up a lot in two years.

Today Satine was practicing being lowered from the ceiling on a precariously thin trapeze. "_The French are glad to die for love… They delight in fighting duels…" _she sang seductively while the other girls looked on from the floor. Urchin had a pair of fabric scissors in her hand and was tapping them against her other palm.

"It's just too tempting, isn't it?" she sneered, putting her head back so that she could squint at Satine. French Maid gasped and Antoinette cuffed Urchin with a wine glass.

Cecile ignored them, concentrating instead on Satine's descent from the velvet-draped ceiling. Satine had been practicing the number in her room when Cecile was still attending to her. She could whisper every word. "_But I prefer a man who leaves… and gives expensive…"_

Satine looked momentarily nervous, the leaned back on the trapeze. _"Jewels."_

How did Satine have so much luck? She was one of those people for whom everything turned to gold. Cecile dragged a glass of cheap wine from Garden Girl's grip and drained it. The alcohol still made her splutter as it went down.

A soft hand like unrisen dough tapped her on the shoulder. Mome Fromage. "Learn to know your sin, love," she murmured, indicating the glass in Cecile's hands. Mome Fromage was the kind of person who called everybody 'love'. "Everyone has their price."

Cecile looked to Satine, who was now practicing some kicks on the stage. "Everyone?"

"Yes. Everyone."

&&&&&&&

Sing: Another chapter over, a new one just begun… Okay, I'm getting into the Christmas spirit faaaaaaar to early.

_Only one exam to go, YAY!_


	12. Chapter 11

Voila, je suis retournee! I have returned! This chapter is dedicated to Thessaly for giving me some very helpful constructive criticism about getting the plot going. Marianne's section was strongly inspired by Emma Donaghue's novel _Slammerkin, _which is a great read, by the way. Delightfully twisted ending.

In violence, it is the getting away that you concentrate on. When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from shore, you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping only to land away from where you are.

_Alice Sebold, 'The Lovely Bones'_

The sky was the palest shade of rose when Marguerite was finally finished for the night. She settled herself at a small round table close to the window of the cancan dancers' bedroom while girls slowly filed in one by one, some giggling and sharing anecdotes about the night's events and others walking quietly, their heads bowed and makeup smudged across their faces. Tonight, Marguerite thought with a satisfied expression, was a success. Not only had she been able to make enough money to feed herself for a week, but she also had done some very efficient pick pocketing on behalf of China Doll. This man in particular had given China Doll a black eye, and Marguerite stole a wad of francs from his jacket in revenge

Marguerite waved slightly as Travesty entered the room, in her underthings with her top hat held loosely in her hand. Travesty pushed her way through the maze of furniture and courtesans, finally letting herself fall into the seat opposite Marguerite. "This corset," she stated flatly, pulling on the collar of her shirt, "is killing me."

"My sympathies," Marguerite commented dryly. Travesty groaned and leant her chin on her hand. Marguerite, noting the shadows under Travesty's eyes, placed two champagne glasses on the table. "Nightcap?" she offered, pulling out a bottle of absinthe that China Doll had given to her as payment.

Travesty nodded slightly. "Please."

Marguerite poured them each a glass of acid-green liquid and leant back in her chair. "Rough night?" she questioned as Travesty downed nearly the entire contents of her glass in one swallow.

"Nah, nothing out of the ordinary," Travesty said roughly. "Just got a stiff back, that's all. Bloody corset." Her voice was almost too hearty, as if she was hiding something.

Marguerite filled her throat with absinthe and closed her eyes as the alcohol burnt its way down. "No use complaining about things you can't change," she murmured.

"Absinthe? Any left for us?" Pearly Queen had entered the room, Caroline in tow.

"No," Marguerite shot back. "You lot came to late."

"Blow that, I know there's more in that bottle." Caroline reached across the table and wrestled the bottle from Marguerite's arms. She passed it to Pearly Queen, who took a large, unladylike swig.

"Full moon tonight," Travesty observed vaguely as Dominatrix and Spanish joined them. Gypsy had stumbled in, pushed Urchin and Garden Girl out of the way and fallen onto her bed, fully dressed. Spanish had merely shrugged upon questioning and snatched the absinthe from Caroline's grasp.

"Full moon," Spanish said through gritted teeth. "So what?"

"So nothing," Travesty replied lazily, her eyes half closed. She glanced out onto the nightclub's garden. Liberty, Harlequin and Antoinette walked by, their arms looped through one another's. Even at this late hour, Harlequin and Antoinette could still giggle.

Marguerite glowered at them. "Piss off." Liberty laughed nervously, Harlequin blushed and Antoinette smirked.

"Lets go into the garden," Travesty suggested suddenly, getting up from the table.

Marguerite scoffed. "What?"

"All of us. Lets go to the garden. It's full moon, after all."

Caroline's eyes widened at Travesty's uncharacteristic romanticism. "Not on your life," she announced, full of self-importance. "It's freezing out there, in case you hadn't noticed!"

Travesty leant down and brought her face very close to Caroline's. "Then put on a coat," she said softly, her voice a few octaves lower than normal.

Marguerite didn't know how it happened, but suddenly they were all following Travesty into the garden wearing nothing but their undergarments, Travesty, the only one who had thought to slip on a practice skirt, galloping ahead on her long legs. Pearly Queen, always impulsive, tried to catch up with her, her ginger hair whipping Marguerite in the face as she ran by. "Travesty, what are you doing?" Pearly Queen called. "Come back!"

Travesty spun dizzily and collapsed onto one of the garden chairs. "Tattoo, darling," she gasped when Marguerite and the others had caught up with her. Caroline had draped a blanket around herself like a cloak and everyone was shivering. How Travesty could stand the cold wearing little more than a corset was incomprehensible. Marguerite looked down as the brunette clutched at her arms. "Dance with me."

Marguerite tried to pull back, but Travesty held her multi-coloured arms tight. Despite her bony frame, Travesty was strong, stronger than she looked. Eventually Marguerite gave up. "Fine, I'll dance with you," she muttered, dragging Travesty to her feet. Marguerite shook her head. "You're plastered. How much did you have to drink?"

"Never you mind!" Travesty replied giddily as she led Marguerite on a mock waltz down the path. Pearly Queen followed, giggling madly, while Caroline hovered on the edges between anxiety and amusement and Spanish and Dominatrix sat down at one of the tables to light their cigarettes, bored with whole exchange.

"Dancing's the only thing worth loving in this world," Travesty whispered, suddenly serious, as she danced around Marguerite. "There's nothing else, nothing at all."

"Aye." Marguerite grabbed Travesty's hand and twirled her about in a parody of the paired dances at the Moulin Rouge. Travesty let go and spun down the path, squealing in a startlingly good imitation of Satine, given Travesty's considerably lower voice. Behind them, Pearly Queen doubled over with laughter.

Travesty spun even faster and then stopped so abruptly that Marguerite collided with her. "Look," she whispered, pointing upwards.

"What?"

"The elephant."

Satine was standing on the roof of the elephant, her arms raised as she did up the clasp of a sparkling ruby necklace.

"Sparkling Diamond indeed!" Pearly Queen exclaimed. She and Caroline had caught up with them, and even Spanish and Dominatrix were wandering over. "Would you look at that necklace? Never seen anything like it. Cost a pretty penny, I'd expect."

"Very cocky of her to flash about her jewels like that," Dominatrix commented, staring at Satine and draping her arm around Marguerite's shoulders. "Almost like she's inviting someone to steal it. Someone quick-fingered."

Marguerite found it uncomfortable, the way everyone was looking at her. "No way," she hissed. "I ain't doing it. I ain't risking my job on a whim! Besides, there's honour in these things. I don't steal from other girls."

"We know, Tattoo," Spanish said imploringly. "But Satine isn't one of us. She's never had to go what we've gone through! She's a pampered chick. She doesn't know what it's like to starve. I've seen her, swanning about like she's Aphrodite come to earth in a corset. She deserves a scare. After all, she's just a common whore, really."

Caroline bounded forward and clasped Marguerite's hands. "Oh, do it, Marguerite, please!" she begged, shaking slightly in her ruffled chemise. "We could pawn the necklace. Think of the money!"

Pearly Queen joined the fray, competing with Caroline in bouncing frantically up and down. "We'd split the money," the redhead fantasised. "You'd get more, of course. I could buy myself a new choker, the velvet of this one's getting frayed…"

Marguerite tore herself free angrily, shoving Caroline out of the way as she did so. "Forget it! Travesty," she sighed, turning to where the dark haired girl was sitting at one of the tables, smoking and gazing into the distance. "Be my voice of reason, will you? Tell them what a stupid idea it is, you're better with words than me."

Travesty shook herself slightly and ground her cigarette into an ashtray. "I think you should do it," she murmured, casually fixing a loose strand of hair into her bun.

Marguerite shook her head in disbelief. "Travesty, sometimes I don't know how you think." She looked back towards the elephant. Satine was watching the stars and singing softly to herself.

Marguerite gave up, and stole Travesty's cigarette from her lips in revenge for the girl not coming to her aid. "Fine. I'll do it. But I'm keeping most of the money." A hasty inhale and the cigarette was back in Travesty's hand. "Oh, and you're helping me."

Travesty coughed. "What?" she said thickly, her jaw clenching.

Marguerite helped herself to Travesty's cigarette again and slid onto the table. "Well, yes. I need someone to stand guard, don't I?"

Marguerite would never expected one glance to hold so much venom.

&#&#&#&#&#

When Marianne began to feel sick in the mornings, she blamed it on alcohol and too much consumption there of. When the very idea of food repulsed her, she blamed it on cheap cigarettes. When she felt faint and listless, and her head would not stop spinning, she blamed it on the late nights. Eventually, however, she ran out of things to blame.

Marianne was no fool. One of her clients must have left her with far more than just some crumpled bills. The thought made her weak with fear.

She waited for another week, then decided she could wait no longer and rushed to catch Harlequin on her own. Antoinette was not the one to approach about such things.

"Harlequin," Marianne whispered desperately. She had found the other girl in a small space under the stairs, smoking a last minute cigarette before the show. There was barely enough room for the two of them.

Harlequin opened her mouth to say something impatient, but stopped when she saw Marianne's distressed face. "Liberty, what's wrong?" she asked worriedly, her bright eyes widening.

Marianne couldn't bring herself to look Harlequin in the face. Surely this couldn't be such an unusual situation, in their line of work, but there was something embarrassing about admitting it. "Harlequin, I think I might be…" She patted her belly.

Harlequin nearly dropped her cigarette. "Oh Lord," she breathed, horrified. "You're knocked up, aren't you?"

Marianne snatched Harlequin's cigarette and dragged hurriedly on it to stop herself from crying. "I think so." A strangled sob. "My God! I can't have a child."

"No, of course not," Harlequin agreed distractedly, almost placing the wrong end of the cigarette in her mouth by mistake. She glared at the glowing roll of paper as if it was the source of all misery in the world, and then ground it out against the wall. "Liberty, I'm going to be honest," Harlequin said with a sad sigh. "You've got two choices. You can either keep the child, which means you'll get thrown out and it'll probably die of starvation anyway, or…" and here the girl put her arm around Marianne's shoulder, "you can have it… done away with."

Marianne blanched. "You mean…?" The very thought made her grasp her stomach in terror.

Harlequin held her in a loose hug. "When I said you have two options, I really meant you have only one."

Marianne had to lean against the wall for support. "Do you know someone who can…?" She couldn't even bring herself to speak the word.

"Yes. But she charges a fair amount. Turn as many tricks as you can tonight. Go without dinner if you have to. Antoinette and I will take you there tomorrow. Remember, aesthetics are a concern here," Harlequin said in a lame attempt at humour. "No one wants a pregnant cancan girl."

For the first and last time in her life, Marianne turned more tricks than Tattoo and Babydoll combined. The threat of losing her job gave her a power of seduction only achieved through sheer desperation. She hardly noticed who was dancing with her or lying on top of her, only how much they left in her tray. After Zidler received his amount of money (he complimented her sudden enthusiasm and commitment), Antoinette assured Marianne that she still had enough to pay 'the doctor' provided she didn't eat for a day. Marianne told her that she didn't think she could stand the sight of food anyway.

The next morning Marianne went to a gin-shop and spent what little extra money there was on a large bottle of the bitter liquid. Antoinette, upon registering how pale Marianne looked, bought another bottle out of her own purse and forced half of its contents down Marianne's throat so rapidly that she gagged and nearly brought the whole lot back up. By the time Harlequin and Antoinette led her to a cellar where 'the doctor' did business Marianne was so drunk she could barely stand, but that didn't stop her remembering every painful detail of the experience.

'The doctor' turned out to be a woman. She said nothing when the other girls brought Marianne in, seemingly used to young girls tripping on her doorstep and shaking with fear. She motioned for Marianne to lie down on the stained, leaking mattress while she brought out tools Marianne, in her childhood of violence, could never have dreamed up in her wildest of nightmares. Harlequin took on of her hands, Antoinette the other. She sensed that many Rouge girls had lain on this mattress.

The pain that shot through Marianne made her twitch and shake and scream, so much so that she groggily heard Antoinette demand if there was any laudanum or something stronger to dull the pain. There was not, and Antoinette poured gin between Marianne's teeth until she thought she might drown. Harlequin gripped her hand very, very hard. Agony took hold of Marianne and shook her like a ship being tossed at sea.

Finally 'the doctor' stopped whatever she was doing and placed a basin next to Marianne's face as if she knew what was going to happen. Harlequin held Marianne's sweat-drenched curls out of her face and Antoinette wiped her mouth when she was done.

Marianne did not dance that night, or any night for a whole week following her ordeal. Antoinette told Zidler that she was ill, that she had a bad fever that disabled her from moving out of bed. Marianne knew that it would take Zidler barely a second to work out the truth. The girls all knew, they shared a room, after all. Most of the time they just left her alone except for a few sympathetic glances now and then. Pearly Queen, in a rare moment of compassion, came and wordlessly gave Marianne one of her precious chocolates. According to rumours, Pearly Queen was once going to have a child, but was abandoned by her fiancé. She had entered into the trade to pay for the child's removal. "Well, what else could you expect me to do?" she would say defensively whenever the topic was raised. "I couldn't raise a brat on my own, now could I?"

Two days after Marianne had added her own red stains to the leaking mattress in the cellar, she was dozing fretfully in her bed during the late evening when a creak announced the bedroom door opening. The girl who entered the room was Juno, a tiny young thing who had barely worked the dancehall for a week. "Oh, I'm sorry!" the girl burst out when she saw Marianne stir. "Are you sick?"

Marianne could not bite back a sarcastic response. "No, Zidler lets me have the night off because he's generous."

Juno shrank back, biting her lip. Marianne instantly felt sorry for her. Juno reminded Marianne of herself, when she was smaller, younger, stupider. The angel wings protruding from the back of Juno's dress may appear ethereal under the bright lights of the dance hall and in the smouldering perfume of the entertainment corridor, but in the dusty twilight of the backstage seemed ridiculous, almost too big for their wearer. "I'm Liberty," Marianne murmured kindly. "I'm all right, really. Just a stomach complaint."

Juno appeared unconvinced. "Oh." She cleared her voice, still standing in the doorway, unable to decide whether to come in. "I left my shoes up here," she stammered hesitantly. So the dances had begun yet. "Can I come in?"

"Sure, I'm not contagious."

The little girl flitted in and out of the room like a ghost, her shoes clutched in her hand. "Did you say your name was Liberty?" she said breathlessly once she was in the doorway again.

Marianne tried to nod, but couldn't manage the effort. "Well, here it is."

Juno looked pleased for the first time. "Well, then I have a message for you," she said strongly, her voice becoming a bit louder. "M'sieur Zidler decided that he liked the idea of you having an act with a pistol, and he wants you to start practicing for it once you're better. He said when you're going to perform it depends on Satine, 'cause she's got a new act, but he wants you to start thinking of something."

This time Marianne managed a dazed "thank you." She had an act. Scrawny, battered Marianne Boulanger had a solo act at the Moulin Rouge. How fates could change!

She was just drifting off into a restless sleep when the door flew open again, this time hitting the wall with a sharp bang. Marianne opened her eyes groggily. It was Tattoo and Travesty, both stumbling against each other and giggling drunkenly as if they were schoolgirls who had played a trick on their headmistress while under the influence of their first sip of wine.

"My God," Travesty gasped, holding onto Tattoo's shoulders for support. "Did you see her face?"

"Bugger that!" Tattoo was laughing so hard she could barely stand up, and Travesty had to catch her. "Can you imagine what the other girls are going to say when we show them _this?_" She held up one colourful arm in emphasis. Something sparkly was clenched in her fist.

"Shh, no, not here!" Travesty said hastily, covering Tattoo's hand with her own. "Are you mad?"

Tattoo threw her head back and laughed so much that she began to hiccup. Travesty joined in, leaning back against the wall to stop herself from slipping. From this angle her gaze fell on Marianne, who quickly closed her eyes. "Shit!" Travesty hissed. "I forgot she was up here."

"Who?" There was a rustle; Marianne supposed that must be Tattoo moving. "Fuck! Bloody Liberty! Is she asleep?"

Travesty whispered something incomprehensible and Marianne heard the sound of boots scraping the floorboards again. Another bang of the door, softer this time, and they were gone. Marianne could hear them giggle all the way down the stairs.

&&&&&&&&

_Spooky music… By this time tomorrow I will have finished school FOREVER! Not that that concerns you guys, but it's important to me._


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer (because I haven't done this for a while): I don't own Moulin Rouge or any of the characters or situations found therein. That goes for Travesty, Tattoo, Juno and Liberty as well, sadly. They belong to the person who made them up, a.k.a the wonderful costume designers.

"_I always want to know the things one shouldn't do."_

"_So as to do them?"_

"_So as to choose."_

_Henry James, 'The Portrait of a Lady.'_

"I can't believe you talked me into this."

Christine repeated those words frequently as she followed Tattoo towards the elephant. It was the night after their lunatic romp through the garden and the mad decision to steal Satine's necklace. Tattoo was still determined to enlist Christine's help, and had emphasised this by dragging Christine out of the dance hall by a section of her skirt. The heavy grey fabric was now wrinkled in places and Christine made a big show of pouting about it, an image that Tattoo found very amusing.

"You shut up," Tattoo said casually as they reached their destination. The painted girl had a roll of rope slung over her shoulder, and would have looked very odd to anyone passing by. But Christine and Tattoo had planned this moment carefully. They slipped out in the middle of Satine's act; meaning that Satine was guaranteed not to be present and the garden was mostly empty, save for a lone rake who was receiving a hand job from an elderly prostitute. "Just do what I tell you," Tattoo finished firmly, gritting her teeth.

"Ohhhh, getting domineering, are we?" Christine taunted, adjusting her top hat. She knew she sounded childish, but Tattoo should realise what an unwilling participant she was. "Perhaps you and Domi should swap places. Or work together. You must enjoy pain to have all those things carved into your skin." Christine bit her lip as soon as she said those words. The only thing likely to send Tattoo in a rage was an insult to her precious inkings. Had she crossed the line?

To Christine surprise, Tattoo didn't even blink. Perhaps she was as nervous as Christine. "Go over there," Tattoo instructed, pointing at the leg of the model pachyderm, "and whistle three times if you see Satine coming, once if it's someone else. You got that?" Tattoo's voice shook slightly.

_She is scared, _Christine realised, and would have almost reached out to take Tattoo's hand. Almost. "Tattoo," Christine whispered in what she hoped was a reassuring voice. "When this is over, I'm buying you a drink."

Tattoo shot her a look of surprise mixed with something remotely resembling gratitude. "I'll be quick," she mumbled.

"You'd better be."

Christine leant against the elephant's foreleg as Tattoo ascended the stairs to the Red Room. Once Tattoo was inside Christine could no longer see her, and hoped that, if needed, Tattoo would be able to hear her whistle. It was an awful feeling, to not know what was going on. Too bad she had never committed burglary before, or she could have helped out in the thieving. Christine sighed into the chilly air and lit the cigarette at the end of her holder. She hardly ever smoked without one now. Holders just seemed so much more elegant.

After a few minutes of lazily letting grey smoke drift with the breeze, Christine caught a bit of movement at the façade of the dance hall. There had been no sign of Tattoo and various men were beginning to reappear. Christine hastily placed the cigarette holder back in her mouth. She couldn't draw attention to herself. As she was, she seemed perfectly normal, a tired dance hall girl taking a break in between customers. Inside, her heart beat furiously with nerves, and her corset felt far too tight.

A figure with a mass of red hair appeared and Christine thought she would die. Satine. In her terror she almost forgot to whistle. At least Satine was still too far away to hear it. Had the act ended early? It was shorter than Christine remembered. Or maybe they had just snuck out too late.

Where _was _Tattoo? Christine whistled again just in case Tattoo had not heard her. A few seconds later and she still hadn't appeared, and Christine was beginning to panic. Who would have thought Satine could walk so fast? She would be at the elephant in moments. "Shit, Tattoo, where are you?" Christine moaned under her breath, trying to refrain from looking upwards and so drawing Satine's attention.

Satine was just a metre away. Christine took a deep breath and stepped into the light, one hand aggressively placed on her hip. Then she reconsidered and took on a terrified expression, running towards Satine as if pursued by a demon. "Satine, something is following me!" she gasped. _Come on, Tattoo! Save yourself, you silly slut! _"It was all white and round and soft…"

Satine's eyes widened. She was still wearing her costume; a black velvet evening gown patterned with silver stars. "Why, Travesty, what is it?"

"My arse."

It was by far the worst joke Christine had ever told, but the delay must have bought Tattoo some time. So where _was_ she?

Satine's face darkened. "That was not funny," she said slowly, making to push past. Christine quickly jumped in her way.

"You think you're so special, don't you?" she snapped, improvising. "You with all your fancy costumes and your pretty little songs. You don't know what it's like to not know where your next meal is coming from, to be taken by a drunk, stinking man old enough to be your father against a brick wall just so that you can keep your draughty garret, to sleep in an alleyway when your landlord throws you out, no, you don't know anything and I bet if you did live on the streets you'd just up and die straight away-"

Christine did not get any further. Satine slapped her across the face with so much force that Christine stumbled backwards against the wall. "Don't assume you know anything about my life!" Satine hissed dangerously, and swept up the stairs.

Christine stared for a while in shocked silence, holding her smarting cheek, before panic set in again. Tattoo! Was she still in there? Had Christine bought her enough time? Christine glanced frantically at the roof of the elephant until someone tapped her on the shoulder.

"I believe you owe me a drink."

Christine whipped around and nearly fainted with relief. "_Tattoo!_ You got out!"

Tattoo grinned crookedly and pointed at the coil of rope hung over her shoulder. "I guess it's a good thing I can climb. Now, lets get out of here. I don't want to be around when Satine finds out her necklace is gone!"

Christine paled. "Quick, behind here," she breathed, and pulled Tattoo behind a large bush. In the window of the elephant, Satine went to her dressing table and began to sort through her various jewels. After opening one box she stopped, looked up momentarily, and then began searching about her dresser like a mad thing. "Where is it?" they could hear her shouting. "Where is it?"

Christine sniggered, and Tattoo was having trouble keeping a straight face. "Lets go, c'mon," she giggled, and the two girls bolted for the dance hall, dashing through the secret doors to the backstage area and hurtling up the stairs, nearly running over Juno in the process.

Christine and Tattoo finally dared to let loose with their laughter once they reached the bedroom. "My God!" Christine gasped, laughing so much that she was forced to hold on to Tattoo's shoulders to keep herself from falling. "Did you see her face?"

"Bugger that." Tattoo slipped slightly, and Christine had to catch her around the waist. A few strands of hair were coming loose from Tattoo's bun, and they gently brushed her fingers. "Can you imagine what the other girls are going to say when we show them _this?_" Tattoo said once she had righted herself, holding up the necklace triumphantly.

A brief spike of panic sliced through Christine's state of euphoria. "Shh, no, not here," she hissed quickly, covering Tattoo's hand with her own. Tattoo's skin was warm except where the icy necklace chilled her. "Are you mad?" Christine added as the panic receded.

Tattoo frowned momentarily, then tore herself away, hiccups punctuating her giggles. Her laughter was contagious, and Christine lent back against the wall, too dizzy with giggles and wine to stand up straight. She briefly caught a glimpse of Liberty lying curled up in one of the bunks and shot back on her feet. "Shit! I forgot she was up here," she swore, trying to see if the blonde Diamond Dog was awake.

"Who?" Tattoo asked softly, leaning over to get a closer look. "Fuck!" she gasped. "Bloody Liberty! Is she asleep?"

Christine pushed Tattoo back a little and made for the stairs. "Best not to wait and find out, eh?"

Tattoo slammed the door and followed her down the stairs. "Why is Liberty in there, anyway?" the thief asked, linking one tattooed arm through Christine's clothed one. Tattoo always left her arms bare in order to better emphasise her assets.

Christine sniggered nastily; the drink and sense of victory making her feel wonderfully careless. "Oh, what do you think?" she said casually, her boots clattering on the splintery floorboards. The air smelt of dust and the mildew no one seemed to be able to get rid of. "Someone knocked her up, and she had to get sliced."

"Sliced and diced," Tattoo answered stupidly, and burst out laughing again. "Poor thing. I had to have one of those when I was fourteen. Spent the entire time getting my excuses ready for Saint Peter."

"Yes," Christine agreed softly. "Poor thing. Poor Liberty."

The girls stopped at the bottom of the stairs, giddily making dreadful puns about pain and suffering and what one could do with Dominatrix's knives. Christine pulled a bottle of cheap champagne from one of the store cupboards and popped the cork, holding it aloft in triumph.

"We must celebrate!" she announced with all the pomp and ceremony of a general whose troops had just won a battle for him.

"That we must," Tattoo agreed, dragging the bottle from Christine's hands. The bubbly champagne had frothed over the neck of the bottle and Christine's fingers, making them sticky. She licked the fizz from her knuckles while Tattoo drank heavily from the bottle, champagne running down her chin. Tattoo wiped her mouth after the drink and presented the bottle to Christine. "To a life of crime, vice and anything else that might send us to hell," she said in a toast.

Christine accepted the bottle. "And to all the rewards they bring," she toasted back, taking a swig of champagne. The golden liquid was still so bubbly it was almost impossible to swallow. Christine ended up coughing and spitting out a lot of the champagne, which made Tattoo cackle in a most uncharitable way.

"Thank you for helping me," Christine growled, but already she could feel a snigger bubbling within her. It must indeed be a funny sight.

Tattoo sighed. "Oh, don't get all touchy with me. You're no fun when you're like that." She picked up the hem of her skirt and used it to wipe the alcohol and spit from Christine's face as an act of charity. The heavy, perfumed silk smothered Christine's face completely and she had to paw blindly at it before Tattoo laughingly drew it away and Christine could breathe again.

Christine gasped for air. "Now really," she said chidingly, giving Tattoo a mock slap on the arm. "Was that absolutely necessary?"

Tattoo's cheek touched hers for a moment. "No."

Their lips brushed across each other's once, twice, three times, careless gestures of romance that meant nothing and everything at the same time. Neither girl would ever be sure if it was an accident or not.

"We have to bring the necklace to the girls," Christine whispered, her breath teasing Tattoo's curls.

Tattoo glanced at her, one eyebrow raised, before gently kissing Christine's china cheeks. "No we don't." Another kiss upon the lips, more insistent this time. "Not just yet."

&#&#&#&#&#&

"Why, Juno, don't you look grim!"

Cecile glowered at Garden Girl while rubbing her aching shin. "Travesty and Tattoo knocked me over on the stairs," she grumbled. "I swear, I'm going to have a bruise as large as the Sacre Coeur."

"Heaven help us, she's developing a temper," Tarot sighed dramatically, throwing a makeup brush in Cecile's direction. Cecile ducked and the brush hit harmlessly against the wall.

"You leave me alone," she said snappishly, sitting down next to Garden Girl to slip on her shoes. Whatever Tarot said in reply was lost as the stage manager chased them from their chairs towards the large swing doors. Another night's business.

A few days later, Cecile was scouting the dance hall in search of clientele when she came across a face she had almost forgotten. He was sitting at a crowded table, holding Liberty on his lap. The revolutionary girl had recently recovered from her illness, though she was still deathly pale. Now she wound her arms around this man, while he slid his hand under her velvet skirts.

Cecile's brother.

Cecile stood in the middle of the dancehall as if she were a statue of her goddess namesake. An older man bumped her and slopped absinthe down her dress, only to be answered with a blank stare. Cecile had not seen her brother for so long that she first believed him to be a spirit.

He was well dressed, as indeed he must have been to be able to get in the front door. When he had delivered Cecile to the Moulin Rouge he had been wearing mud brown trousers two sizes too small and a woman's shirt that needed patching. Now his boots sparkled blindingly and his waistcoat was a white that would have put a saint to shame. Liberty playfully knocked off his top hat and underneath his hair was the same pale blonde as Cecile's.

Her first thought was that she was imagining things, that a phantom was kissing Liberty's neck and stroking the gleaming gold of her hair. But there could be no doubt that he was certainly real, for whatever purpose. She wondered, then, if he had come to take her home, to rescue his little sister from a life trapped in the dirty glitter of the underworld. Hope, desperate, pathetic hope gripped Cecile's heart, and she took a step forward to run into his arms, calling his name, no longer a silken dancer but a scared little girl. She would have called his name if only she could remember what it was.

Slowly she crossed the dance hall, oblivious to the laughter and jeers of gentlemen and whores that characterised the Moulin Rouge. It was such a large distance to cross.

Cecile's brother glanced at her over Liberty's shoulder. For a moment he stared through her, distracted by Liberty's expert fingers, then appeared quizzical, as if trying to remember when he had seen Cecile's face before. It seemed ridiculous; that he could not recognise his own sister, had they not spent many hours in a freezing rented room, waiting for their mother to return?

But then Cecile had been nothing but a skinny urchin with a dirt-stained face and shredded skirt. Anything remaining of Cecile the girl was hidden beneath powder and false smiles; the illusion that was Juno. Her brother pressed money into Liberty's hand and Cecile could have screamed in rage.

So much for hope.

When one of her brother's friends asked her to dance, she accepted, and when he offered her money, she did not turn him down. The night was young, and there was work to be done.

The next day found Cecile at rehearsal, practicing a new paired dance with one of the male dancers; a tall, moustachioed man by the name of Antoine while attempting to listen to a story Schoolgirl was telling about some second cousin of hers being hanged in Australia for bushranging ("Ned Kelly, yeah, he's my cousin, all right."). Liberty was receiving instruction from an acrobat and a stagehand on the art of 'gun slinging', and seemed to be showing some skill with it. Finally the stagehand loaded the battered pistol Liberty was practicing with and allowed her to take aim at a paper target.

The resulting bang made many girls scream in terror and even Antoine, who hadn't been watching, jumped. Cecile watched as Liberty gave a delighted laugh, spun the pistol with bravado and slipped it inside her vest. Cecile's curiosity piqued. Abandoning Antoine, she made her way over to Liberty, who had pulled out the pistol and was once again practicing her spins and throws like a murderous juggler.

"Liberty?" Cecile said carefully. "Could you teach me how to shoot?"

Liberty looked up, startled. She had a warm, proud beauty, none of the icy aloofness you found in the more experienced girls. A passionate beauty. "Well, I suppose I could," Liberty answered slowly. "Though I don't know when you'd use it!"

Liberty taught her how to hold the gun, to aim it at the target and pull the trigger. The steel was as cool as diamond and Cecile felt as if she had all the power of the world in her hands.

_All the power of the world._

No one would beat a girl with a gun. No one would call her an angel.

_All the power of the world._

She would be impossible to ignore.

All the… 

"Juno?" Liberty's voice came as if from far away. "Juno, are you all right?"

When Cecile did not answer, Liberty reached forward and gently plucked the pistol from her trembling hands. "It's not dangerous," Liberty reassured her. "I only had one shot. You can't hurt anyone with that. You know that, don't you?"

There was something in Liberty's tone that Cecile did not like. "Yes," she answered finally. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "Yes, of course I know that. I'm not stupid."

Liberty frowned, regarding Cecile with her worried baby blues. "Good."

Juno dropped her eyes and returned to Garden Girl's table, envying the power Liberty held in her hands.

&#&#&#&#&#

Not exactly equal in length… Oh well. I had a bit of writer's block with Juno, but then inspiration returned in the form of my Les Miserables soundtrack. 'Bring Him Home' and 'Stars'… Two great songs in their own right.

References:

_Ned Kelly: Okay, yes, it was a shameless Australian reference. Ned Kelly was the son of an Irish convict (hence the connection to Schoolgirl, who is Irish in this fic) who became the most famous Australian bushranger and bank robber of all time. He's been described as the Australian Robin Hood. If you want to know more, check out the movie 'Ned Kelly'. Has Heath Ledger in it._

_End Shameless Australian History Reference._


	14. Chapter 13

Hello, dears! I'm back with another chapter. Writer's block, be gone! The song lyrics in this are from the theme to the film 'Casablanca'.

_The poor tell you, there is no God. Not for you, and not for me either._

'_Les Miserables', by Victor Hugo_

The Red Room was much larger than your average brothel boudoir, and Marguerite couldn't stop herself from letting out a soft whistle of appreciation. The room was decked in Indian style, according to the latest fashion, with more pillows upon the bed than most girls saw in their lifetimes. Jewels littered the cluttered makeup stand like brightly shimmering candy, and Marguerite felt the familiar thief's itch in her fingers. She was like a magpie, attracted to all things shiny and glimmering that did not belong to her.

At first she had been nervous. Burglary had never been her speciality, and certainly she had never been alone on one of her raids. Travesty's position at the front of the elephant gave her some much-needed confidence, but that did not stop the thought that she was dangerously out of practice.

The ruby necklace wasn't hard to find. Satine was notoriously careless with her jewels, and Marguerite toyed with the idea of stealing the whole lot to teach her a lesson. But that went against her principals. However, she did help herself to some of Satine's absinthe, taking care to smear off any traces of lipstick. Alcohol attracted Marguerite almost as effectively as jewels did.

The rubies sparkled in the gaslight like bubbles of blood cased in silver. They did not contrast against Marguerite's skin- she was too colourful for that- but against milk-white flesh must have looked stunning. No wonder an admirer had given it to Satine. Marguerite found herself transfixed, gazing at the piles of diamonds and sapphires, an amethyst necklace Satine refused to wear (she said it did not suit her), a gold bracelet embossed with ivory…

Marguerite would never be sure how long she stood there, examining various pieces of jewellery, picking up something, putting it down, finding each new jewel more beautiful than the first, when Travesty whistled down below. Unlike her usual smoky voice, Travesty's whistle was loud and piercingly sharp, causing Marguerite to jump in a way that was most undignified. The jerk made her drop the ruby necklace in such a way that it flew across the room, landing somewhere amongst a pile of cushions.

"Oh _fuck._"

Marguerite hurtled towards the pile of pillows, searching for a glimpse of silver. The logical thing would be to take off without it, but Marguerite had a sense of pride that got in the way of rationality. Outside, Travesty whistled again, more frantic this time, and Marguerite realised that she had to escape now or lose her job and probably a lot more besides. It was too late to go through the door; Satine would see her. Her only option was to go over the roof.

By sheer luck she caught a glimpse of the necklace, grabbed it, and stuffed it down her bodice. Marguerite was not a God-fearing person, but now she reverently thanked 'the man upstairs' for allowing her the foresight to bring a length of rope. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Marguerite headed for the roof of the elephant, glancing towards the ground to see if Satine was there.

The far side of the elephant presented the least risk of being seen, and Marguerite quickly tied one end of the rope around one of the poles. She faintly heard Travesty say something below and Satine answer before she began her climb, trying not to think of the distance between herself and the ground. There was a slapping sound, and Travesty gave a yelp of pain. Perhaps it would be fair if Marguerite bought her a drink as well.

When Marguerite's feet finally touched the ground (she cursed the person who had invented high heeled shoes), she was so relieved she could have bent down and kissed the earth, if it wasn't for the fact that she had no time. She kicked the bushes at the side of the fence to make it look as if an outsider had stolen the necklace and climbed down the roof, and hoped they would take the bait.

"I believe you owe me a drink," she said in the most casual tone she could muster, tapping Travesty on the shoulder.

Travesty spun around to face her, one cheek slightly redder than the other. "_Tattoo!_" she gasped, her face lighting up. "You got out!"

Marguerite smiled at her. In some ways, Travesty was such an innocent. It was oddly endearing. "Lets just say it's a good thing I can climb…"

The absinthe quickly took hold, and next few hours passed in an emerald soaked blur that fizzed with champagne and triumph. Marguerite remembered vague moments of Travesty's lips across her skin and she returning the gesture, leaving bloody streaks on china white, their fingers entwined, leaving them with swollen, bitten mouths no customer could be responsible for. A final, vicious kiss ended their hours of solitude and Marguerite dragged Travesty to the storeroom where the other girls were anxiously waiting.

"Where _have_ you two been?" Pearly Queen demanded as soon as Marguerite and Travesty slid through the door.

"Repenting our sins," Travesty answered without a trace of embarrassment, nudging Marguerite in the ribs. When Marguerite first kissed her she had coloured, but Travesty seemed fully recovered now.

"Really?" Pearly Queen looked Travesty up and down, scepticism etched across her face. "Travesty, your shirt's undone."

"Is it?" Travesty returned casually, fumbling with a few buttons at her collar.

Dominatrix, patience not being a virtue she was endowed with, roughly pushed Pearly Queen aside and closed in on Marguerite. "Did you get the necklace?" she asked in a manner that suggested she would pull out a knife if Marguerite had not.

Marguerite cast her a look of cool, unruffled disdain. Dominatrix was all talk, to a large extent, and she had been threatened by far more shady types in the past. "I did. Don't look at me like that."

Caroline got up from where she was squashed against Spanish and came forward, her bonnet askew. "You did? Lets see it, then!" she said eagerly, trying to get a glimpse of Marguerite's hands.

Marguerite stepped back for effect, something that was quite hard to achieve in a crowded storeroom, and pulled the necklace from her bodice. Whatever poor light the candles threw out was caught in the sparkling gems, sending red spots dancing across the walls.

The other girls let out a collective gasp of awe. Even Travesty and Dominatrix, who prided themselves on remaining unaffected by all, were silenced.

"Well," Pearly Queen broke in finally with a gulp. "Satine wont be happy when she finds that missing!"

Travesty reached out to brush the gems in Marguerite's hand. "Can I hold it?" she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Marguerite glanced at the other girl in surprise. Travesty wasn't the type to be attracted to all things shiny. "Of course. Don't drop it."

"I wont." Travesty took the necklace from Marguerite and clasped it around her neck. "How do I look?" she asked, posing. Caroline laughed. Travesty could do extraordinarily accurate imitations of Satine.

"Wonderful, darli…" Pearly Queen trailed off, and Caroline began to back away.

Travesty frowned, reaching up towards the necklace. "What is it?"

Marguerite too wondered what had the others afraid. Travesty was standing slightly in front of her and so her view of the other girl was blocked. Gypsy was the one who eventually spoke. "Travesty," she said gently, her voice hushed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your throat was slit."

"_What?_" Travesty turned towards Marguerite, still wearing the necklace. "Is that true?"

Red gems spread across Travesty's bare neck like miniscule drops of blood, as if a murderer with a sense for the ornamental had taken a knife to her. Marguerite could not help being shocked. "You look like a ghost, Trav," she whispered. There was simply no way around it. Travesty looked like she was sprayed with blood.

Travesty hastily took of the necklace, uncharacteristically troubled. She held the necklace out from her as if she had developed a superstitious fear of it, but no one volunteered to take it. "Well," Travesty finally rasped. "What do we do with it now?"

Dominatrix gave a frustrated sigh. "Sell it, what else? We'll take it to the pawnshop first thing tomorrow."

Marguerite shook her head, knowing that her expertise in such matters was valued. "Not with something as recognisable as this. It'll be the first place Zidler looks. No, the only place you could pawn this would be a dolly-shop, and they won't give you half of what the necklace is worth."

"And then what?" Dominatrix reddened slightly with anger. "Are we going to give it back now just because these stupid sluts got spooked?"

Somewhere next to Marguerite, Travesty hissed like an angry cat. "Insolent tart."

Dominatrix launched herself at Travesty, Travesty drew her arm back to retaliate and Marguerite only just managed to separate them. "None of that," she murmured in Travesty's ear. "I know how to handle this."

"Do you? Do you really, Tattoo? I'm starting to doubt that." Caroline. Clearly Marguerite had not been quiet enough. "We've got to get rid of it! This was a stupid idea from the start…"

Travesty broke in before Marguerite could answer. "In case I'm not mistaken, Babydoll, you were the one who wanted this," Travesty said with superb arrogance.

"And you did not? Or did you just want to get Tattoo on her own?"

"STOP IT!" Marguerite was so loud she was sure someone outside had heard her, but she was too angry to care. "The necklace is bad news. I'll just go to the elephant and return it later. Make it look like Satine lost it. God knows she's careless enough."

"Take it back? After all that?" Dominatrix's face was livid.

"As far as I know, you didn't lift a finger, Domi." Marguerite grabbed the necklace from Travesty before anyone could stop her and made for the door. Travesty pelted after her and threw herself in Marguerite's way.

"Wait," the brunette said gently. One of her cheeks was slightly swollen, and Marguerite vaguely wondered how it had happened. "I've got a better idea."

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When Marianne was eight, she held her head in the washbasin to see how long it would take before she had to come back up. It had been the perfect isolation- cool, calm and oddly quiet- and she thought she could remain there forever, if allowed, her hair floating about her like some exotic sea kelp. Then one of her brothers had come into the room and pulled her roughly out, spluttering, sodden to the shoulders.

Lying on her bunk still shaken with cramps and bleeding, Marianne wished she had been left in that washroom, her head submerged under the dirty water. The only time she had been cool, calm and quiet. But those things could not be achieved in real life and it was useless to dream after them. There was no quiet for a dirty whore.

A week and half later, Marianne was back in the cancan line and had to work like mad to earn her keep again. Throughout her recovery, Zidler had been reasonably generous, even allowing some portions of food to be sent to her when Antoinette and Harlequin could not afford it. But now she was under pressure to make up the money Zidler had lost, and Antoinette told her that it was an act of extreme compassion on Zidler's part that he did not take eighty percent of her earnings as a punishment.

"He must think you've got what it takes," Antoinette added. It was more likely that Zidler trusted Marianne's new act.

One of the stagehands knew how to shoot, though Marianne did not inquire as to how he had learnt the information. A juggler gave her an old pistol he had used in an act some time ago, and the stagehand (appropriately named Maximilian or Max) taught her how to fire it while the juggler demonstrated how to toss, spin and throw the pistol like a cowboy in the cheap novels of west America.

"Of course, no one really fights like this," Max told her during rehearsal. "But that's not the point, is it?"

The gun-toting revolutionary seemed a popular image at the Rouge. At first, Marianne considered fashioning her act after one of the historical figures she had read about as a young girl, such as her childhood heroines Claire Lacombe and Pauline Leon, but Zidler instantly refused. "Liberty, my dear, this is a dancehall, not a schoolroom," he chuckled pompously the moment Marianne suggested it. "Forget accuracy. Do a few tricks, show them your legs. You have such pretty ones."

Marianne frowned to show her objection to Zidler's attempting to sweet-talk her, but gave in. At least she had an act. Garden Girl, who was by far and away the most talented seamstress amongst the Diamond Dogs, sewed a small holster into the lining of Marianne's black vest, allowing her to reach inside and quickly draw out the pistol. It was a very impressive opening move, provided she was fast enough. Max, who manned the swing doors that let the girls into the dancehall, took to drilling Marianne in the dressing rooms before the show, and Marianne developed an odd delight for drawing the gun on unsuspecting Diamond Dogs backstage and hearing them screech. Tarot in particular had a scream that could break glass.

"You are having far too much fun with that pistol," Antoinette chided gently during rehearsal. It was the first silent moment in days. Satine, the self-proclaimed star of the Moulin Rouge, had spent the past three mornings raving to Zidler about how a burglar had stolen her ruby necklace. Marianne had already laughed at some rather nasty jokes about it from the other Diamond Dogs.

Marianne shrugged and spun the gun deftly in her hand. She had been practicing her gun slinging for the past four days and was due to perform her act for the first time that night. Anxiety gnawed at her belly, and she searched about the hall for something to distract her. Travesty and Tattoo were seated some metres away, and to Marianne's surprise Tattoo actually got up and strolled over to Juno, who was practicing a few dance steps with Tarot. "Juno," Marianne heard Tattoo say, taking Juno's arm in a chummy but insistent manner. "Come and talk to me and Trav for a while."

Marianne watched, puzzled, as Juno glanced beseechingly at Tarot and Tattoo drew the tiny girl away to her table. Travesty smiled at Juno in a way that she probably intended to be welcoming, but instead came off as faintly mischievous. Tattoo pushed the now terrified looking Juno into a chair and pressed a glass of absinthe in her hand, while Travesty leant over, speaking intently under her breath.

_What are they up to? _Marianne wondered, trying to catch what Travesty was saying. Juno shook her head frantically and tried to stand up, but Tattoo snatched her wrists and held them down. Travesty seemed to be doing most of the talking, while Tattoo poured more absinthe into Juno's glass. "There now," Marianne faintly heard Travesty whisper. "I promise you no harm will come of it. We wouldn't do that to you, Juno." Travesty's smooth drawl was so persuasive Marianne almost believed her on Juno's behalf, if Tattoo had not had that strange grin on her face.

Marianne didn't realise she was staring until Travesty caught her eye and glared pointedly at her. Marianne quickly looked away, face flaming, and tried to fix her eyes on something else. Chocolat had struck up a sentimental music hall tune on the cracked piano, and Max, who was known for being 'good with the ladies', went up to Harlequin and gallantly asked her to dance. Harlequin giggled girlishly, but accepted his offer.

Max and Harlequin waltzed, a rare sight at the Moulin Rouge. Chocolat, enthused, began to sing along in his dark, rich voice, something that made the others stop to listen while Max and Harlequin too centre stage. They did well; Max was a competent enough dancer and Harlequin seemed to be enjoying herself. It was something that did not belong in Montmartre and by rights should be confined to the ballrooms of the rich, but watching Harlequin and Max waltz was a welcome diversion. _You must remember this… A kiss is just a kiss… a sigh is just a sigh… The fundamental things of love, as time goes by…_

Someone next to her muttered something with contempt, and to Marianne's great surprise that person turned out to be Antoinette. "Sickly sweet, isn't it," the redhead grumbled, regarding Harlequin through viciously narrowed eyes. "Look at her. You wouldn't think she was a whore."

It sounded like something that would be said about Satine, not Harlequin, and certainly not by Antoinette. The two were normally joined at the hip; and Marianne felt a sudden need to defend Harlequin from Antoinette's accusation. "She's only dancing."

"Only dancing?" Antoinette tossed her spectacular mane of curls. "Ha! Watch her face. Oh, that girl is so romantic I could kill her!"

Unfortunately, Harlequin had ended her waltz at that moment and had arrived in time to overhear Antoinette's last words. She stopped dead, hands on hips. Everywhere people were turning to them, eager to watch the imminent argument. "Do you have a problem with me dancing, Antoinette?" Harlequin's voice trembled.

Antoinette did not get up from her chair, choosing instead to glower at her friend. "No, Harle. But I do have a problem with you staring after some boy like a lovesick cow! Do you want to end up on the streets?"

Harlequin flushed; whether with embarrassment or rage, Marianne could never be sure. "Lovesick?" she stammered for a moment, then composed herself somewhat. "What right have you to say something like that? What right have you to dictate whom I dance with, or anything else, for that matter?"

"_Dictate?_" Antoinette was so furious her voice went up an octave. "Dictate? Who was it that found you in that alley, _Giselle, _half starved with a baby at your breast? Who was it that told you to leave the brat on the church steps and save yourself? Who found you a job here? You would be dead if it weren't for me!"

The mention of the name 'Giselle' confused Marianne somewhat, until she established that Antoinette must have called Harlequin by her true name. Then the rest of Antoinette's words sunk in. Baby. Harlequin had abandoned a child. No wonder she had encouraged Marianne to do away with her baby before it was born.

Harlequin seemed to crumple before Marianne's eyes. She raised a hand to wipe blackened tears from her cheeks. "Antoinette," she whispered finally. After her earlier outburst, her voice was surprisingly steady. "I told you to never speak of that again."

She turned abruptly and left the dancehall, still covering her face.

Antoinette and Harlequin refused to speak to each other for the rest of the day, and Marianne found herself in the unwelcome position of being their conduit. She took Harlequin's side, thinking that the poor girl was in need of far more sympathy than Antoinette, and spent most of the afternoon trying to convince Antoinette to apologise.

"You did the wrong thing, back then," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

On this occasion Antoinette actually responded. "I know. I made an awful mess of things."

Marianne, satisfied with the answer, took hold of Antoinette's shoulders and pointed to where Harlequin was sitting at her dressing table, sipping some wine and staring at nothing. "Then go and tell her that," Marianne insisted firmly, giving Antoinette a shove in Harlequin's direction. Being the peacemaker was far more tiresome than she had expected.

With Antoinette now apologising to Harlequin, Marianne took to wandering the corridors to work away the time left till the performance. Her skirt felt heavy against her stockinged legs, and she was in need of new shoes; the current ones pressed painfully on her toes. Silence, she needed silence. With a sigh, she headed for the entertainment corridor. The basin in the washroom would still be full. She would only be a moment… She was about to open the washroom door when some familiar voices floated from the room Tattoo used to do business.

"Word that a bit differently, it sounds as if we're threatening her." Travesty.

"But we are, aren't we?" A different voice, higher, more coarse. Pearly Queen, perhaps, Tattoo's voice was deeper.

"It's a threat, yes, but it's not an immediate one. More like a warning." Babydoll. What was she doing there?

Marianne held her breath, her face so close to the door that her nose was touching it. The next girl to speak was Dominatrix, Marianne would recognise that chilling purr anywhere. "Who cares about technicalities? Just write the damn letter, Trav."

A letter? Marianne shook her head in confusion. What were they up to?

Travesty's voice rang out again; a little frustrated. "Such impatience, Domi! Don't fret now; I'm just about done. Tattoo, do you have any place to hide this and the necklace?"

_The necklace. _Suddenly everything fell into place. One of the Knives had stolen the necklace, not some passing intruder. It must have been Tattoo; no one else had the skill. Marianne quickly thought back to when she had seen Tattoo and Travesty laughing on the stairs. Tattoo had been holding something sparkly in her hand. But it seemed as if the girls had much more than money on their minds…

A few more minutes of eavesdropping, including a heart-stopping moment when she was nearly caught by Pearly Queen, and Marianne had pieced together the basics of the plan.

She had to admit, it was rather brilliant.

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_Another chapter done! Phew. As this will most likely be the last chapter I post before Christmas, allow me to wish you all a very merry Christmas. I want a few reviews as presents, thank you!_

_References:_

_Dolly-shop: nineteenth century slang for an illegal pawnshop._

_Maximilian: reference to Maximilian Robespierre, one of the leaders of the French Revolution. _


	15. Chapter 14

Bonjour! At last I've returned. I realise that this chapter was hugely delayed. This is mostly due to writer's block, the festive season and a period of having to make Life Changing Decisions. I would like to take this moment to announce that I got into both the university and the course that I wanted. Yay!

_In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh most true, she is a strumpet. What news?_

_None my lord, but that the world's grown honest._

_Then is doomsday near._

_William Shakespeare, 'Hamlet'._

It was the pact that sealed all their fates, but years later Christine managed to shrug off the blame when someone else put it in action. It was as all plans should be; simple, opportunistic, yet it was voicing many unexpressed opinions and blame mattered very little when Satine was as dead as a doornail.

At the time, however, the idea was considered a rather good one.

After much arguing it was decided that Christine would write the letter that would accompany the necklace. Pearly Queen could read far better than she could write and Babydoll's spelling was appalling, despite her protests to the contrary. Really, Christine admitted as she settled herself at Tattoo's dressing table, there were some advantages to having been born into the bourgeoisie.

_Dear Satine, _the letter read. _It may come as a surprise to see a message from the Diamond Dogs. We are, after all, completely different life forms from your perspective. However, as you seem so insistent on being treated like something better, we see it as our duty to inform you that we see no reason to include you in the few privileges we have. One of these privileges is your secrets being kept: we do not betray one another. Yet you are not one of us. If you ever have something that you need to keep concealed from anyone at all (for example, do your customers know that you're so careless with their jewellery?), don't expect us to help you. In fact, do not be surprised if we accidentally… let something slip. Do not think you can get away with anything. You may not notice us, but we see every thing you do. With compliments, the Diamond Dogs._

_PS: Please do not leave your jewellery out again. It is a foolishness we cannot abide._

It had been Tattoo's idea to add the final line. Some girls such as Spanish and Dominatrix needed some convincing as to the point of the plan; and Dominatrix in particular was still for selling the necklace and buying a new dress with the money. "Think of the power we'll hold over her!" Christine insisted. "She will be constantly looking over her shoulder, waiting for one of us to spill her secrets."

"Hmm, that reminds me," Tattoo broke in leaning back in her chair and taking a long drag on her cigarette. "Are we actually going to follow through with the threat?"

Christine, pointedly ignoring a whispered comment from Babydoll, turned to the older women incredulously. "Why, of course. What sort of people are we if we don't keep our promises?"

That caused a chuckle amongst the girls. Christine smiled and wound one of her black curls around her finger. She rather liked being the leader.

Tattoo yawned and got up to push Dominatrix from her bed. "Great. We'll get the letter delivered tomorrow. Domi, move, would you?" Tattoo stretched out on the satin covers, her face turned to the ceiling. Her room was decorated to look like the captain's cabin of a great ship, complete with wood panelling, midnight blue velvet and sail-like drapes on the four-poster. Christine had always envied it.

Spanish slid off the bed on the other side and motioned for Gypsy to lace up her corset. "Did you two get Juno?" she asked cautiously, nudging Christine's shin with her boot.

Christine bent over the letter for mistakes. "Of course we did. She'll do it. I think she's to scared to do anything else, really."

Pearly Queen, who had been precariously perched on the other end of the dressing table, let out a nasty cackle. "I love those little girls," she giggled, ginger hair and periwinkle eyes gleaming in the candlelight like a fallen angel. "They're so delightfully stupid."

Dominatrix laughed and passed Pearly her cigarette. "Here Pearl, you finish this off. We've got to get down to the dressing rooms."

Spanish moaned. "Oh, must we?" she said breathlessly while Gypsy made the final tugs on her corset.

One by one the girls filed out, leaving Christine to make the finishing touches to the letter while Tattoo hid the necklace somewhere in her dresser. Christine was just pulling on her dove-grey gloves when Tattoo came up behind her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Trav, I'd prefer if you didn't see where I'm going to hide the necklace," she murmured, hugging her slightly from behind. "I like you, but not that much."

Christine turned to her, frowning. "Why, you don't want me to see what other things you've got in there?"

Tattoo laughed and tapped Christine's nose. "Thief's sense. I trust no one. And besides, you still need to fix your makeup."

Christine gave the other girl another playful punch in the arm before brushing out the door. The hallway was dark, and the distant clanging of a church bell reminded Christine of the hour. Time to get to work.

Her boots hit the floor in time with the chimes. One, two, three, four, five, six-

"I know what you're up to."

Christine was so surprised she nearly tripped herself. "What the hell?" she demanded, pushing a few curls out of her face and trying to make out who had spoken. A slim figure stood in the corner, cloaked in shadow. Christine straightened up and folded her arms loosely. "Come out where I can see you."

"Oh," said the figure gently. "Very well."

She had expected it to be Nini, or China Doll, or even that chit Urchin who always stuck her nose where she was not wanted. She certainly had not expected Liberty. "What on earth…" The rest of Christine's sentence was lost as Liberty stepped further into the light. She had already put on her costume, and her full skirt took on a disturbing ruby hue.

"You've got the necklace," Liberty continued slowly. She was smiling, though she was far more pale than usual. "And I know what you're going to do with it."

"Do you?" Christine answered with far more confidence than she felt. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" A challenge like that usually shut the weaker girls up.

Liberty's colour rose, and she dropped her eyes for a moment as if she was unsure how to continue. Then she quickly looked up again. "I want in."

Christine regarded Liberty with new respect. Who knew the girl had such spirit? Christine had put her down as one of the softer girls, pretty but spineless. "Well," she said slowly. "Aren't you a dark horse."

It was to Christine's eternal annoyance that she never took part in the plan's execution. It was due to take the place the following night, and Christine had spent the greater part of the next afternoon refining some of the finer points with Tattoo. She was still going over it in her mind when she began plying her trade, and that was where she was rather dramatically put out of action.

Christine had spent the early evening entertaining a wealthy nobleman whom the girls referred to as 'Mister Blind'. Mister Blind had a fondness for blindfolding women's eyes with a black silk cloth and then commanding them to do whatever he wanted, he being one of the many men in the world who found submission attractive. He was a regular of many girls at the Rouge including Christine, who normally complied despite her dislike for the practice. It frightened her, to lose sight of the world. This time, however, she was distracted by thoughts of the plan while he was binding her eyes and fought back without thinking. The reaction earned her a very thorough pummelling from her client, who said that he needed to "beat that fierce streak out of her."

The ordeal left Christine with lashes across her back and bruises darker than all the makeup she had ever worn. It gave her a grim glimpse of a possible future- a satin sheet wound about the neck, with time for a cut glass scream before the final bite of the knife- and she forgot her dignity and shook bitterly as Marie and Nini rubbed brandy into the wounds. "Your friends will take care of everything," Nini whispered as she offered the remainder of the brandy to Christine to drink. Christine wondered, irrelevantly, how Nini always managed to know everything about everyone.

Tattoo visited her in the early hours of the morning. "You're a sight to scare the horses," the young woman laughed gently while she settled herself in a chair.

"Strangely, I find myself not caring," Christine growled into her pillow, too exhausted to move. She would have new scars now, stripes of pink across the white. She wondered how many scars lay under Tattoo's inks. "Did everything work out?"

"What?"

"_You _know."

"Oh, that." Tattoo shifted to the floor and leant against the bed so that their heads were level. "I'll tell you tomorrow. Speaking of which, do you have anything to do with Liberty finding out?"

Christine groaned. Liberty. She had forgotten about her. "No. She must have overheard something. Tell you what, she's got more guts than I thought she had." An unexpected wave of emotion took hold of her, perhaps it was the brandy, perhaps something different, but suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not the jewel theft, not the prospect of not being able to work the next day, nothing besides that very moment. Christine rolled onto her side and put her hands on Tattoo's cheeks, tilting the girl's face towards her. Without thinking twice Christine kissed her, hard. It was the fifth voluntary kiss she had bestowed in her life and Tattoo had received four of them. Each time it was a little harder to let go.

"I don't love you," Christine murmured, trembling. "I don't love you, I don't love you, I don't love you." She swallowed, becoming more desperate. "I'll never fall in love!"

Tattoo gazed at her in incredulous wonder. "Well, I don't love you either, but that doesn't mean we can't have fun, does it?" She paused, her fingers softly tracing Christine's jawbone. "You're very young. I forget sometimes."

Christine frowned at her. "You're not _that _much older than me, you know."

Tattoo gave an oddly serene smile and leant in to return the kiss. "That's not what I meant."

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Cecile was dancing circles around Tarot when Tattoo cornered her. "Juno," the older woman said with false friendliness. "Come and talk to me and Trav for a while."

Cecile, sensing some sinister motive, looked to Tarot for rescue, but the Romanian Diamond Dog didn't have the have the helpful streak that Garden Girl was endowed with, and so let Cecile be dragged off to Travesty's table.

Travesty and Tattoo resembled the icy princesses of fairytales, the kind with a terrible beauty that made you shiver, and Cecile suddenly felt the way she had when Arabia and China Doll had first dragged her off to see Zidler. Tattoo, flashing her a smile the colour of blood, set a glass of cheap crystal in front of her and filled it with emerald absinthe. "Drink up," she ordered.

Travesty leant towards her while Cecile raised the glass and took a tight-lipped sip. "We have a proposition for you," Travesty purred, leaning her cheek against her hand.

"Proposition?" Cecile stammered, trying to get her head around the word. "You mean like an offer? No thanks."

Tattoo snickered and pushed the absinthe glass into her hand. "She's got pluck, I'll give her that."

Travesty glanced briefly at Tattoo before turning her attention back to Cecile. "When I said proposition, I really meant an order," she sighed theatrically. Cecile balked and tried to stand up, but Tattoo snatched her wrists and held her down. Any of Cecile's further attempts at speech were drowned as Tattoo held the glass to her mouth, forcing her to down the absinthe.

"Let me go," Cecile pleaded, trying to sound insistent and not like the frightened little girl she was. Already the absinthe was clouding her vision, and her voice seemed oddly muffled, as if it were not her own.

There was a distant clink as Tattoo poured more absinthe into Cecile's glass, undiluted, as if in punishment for her defiance. Tattoo, Cecile could not help noticing, was doing all this with a remarkably practiced air. "There now," Travesty whispered, taking Cecile's fingers between her frozen hands. "I promise you no harm will come of it. We wouldn't do that to you, Juno." Her deep brown eyes darkened for a moment, and the cross dressing Diamond Dog turned to glare violently at some attempted eavesdropper. The faint flash of blonde suggested it was Liberty. "We have something for Satine. All you have to do is deliver it to the elephant, because you're the only one who can get in there without suspicion. Zidler is so paranoid now. The rest is none of your business."

"I'm not… I won't…" Absinthe stained Cecile's speech and the found herself agreeing through the emerald haze.

The following night Cecile did everything in her power to avoid any of the Knives, but it was too late and Babydoll tripped her in the hall during Satine's act. "Where do you think you're off too, Miss Angel?" the blonde dancer said spitefully, smoothing down her pastel dress. "We've got work for you."

Babydoll dragged Cecile to her room; a pearl pink confection in satin and lace. Assorted dancers sprawled across chairs and on the floor, and all looked up at her entrance. Babydoll, it seemed, had already entertained a gentleman, as everyone was avoiding the sticky sheets. It was the normal crowd that surrounded Babydoll, but Cecile instantly noticed two glaring differences: Travesty's absence, and Liberty, folded nervously into one corner, no more than a smudge of tricolour against the pink.

Spanish was the first to speak. "So you did find Juno!" she said triumphantly to Babydoll, who was daintily sipping some champagne. Spanish got up from the floor and strode over to pinch Cecile's cheek. "Ready to play with the big girls, hmm?" she murmured in her thick accent. One of the more exotic clients, a dancer from the Argentine, favoured her because of her native tongue. The other girls liked to tease her about it.

"Put her with Liberty, they can keep each other company," Tattoo replied, blowing out a cloud of smoke. Cecile kept a nervous eye on her. "Liberty's going to be your lookout. Gets us off the hook if you get caught."

Liberty raised her eyes from the corner and briefly met Cecile's. Liberty was no pastel princess as the Knives believed. Everything about her was crimson and white.

Tattoo spoke up again while putting out her cigarette. "Where'd Trav get to?"

"Had a run in with Mr Blind," Babydoll sniggered maliciously. "I saw her in the dressing room. He got her good. Blood everywhere." Something about Babydoll's childish laugh made her seem even more threatening.

Tattoo bit her lip for a moment. In the corner, Liberty shifted and glanced towards the door. "Well, I guess that rules her out," Tattoo finished brightly, plucking Pearly Queen's cigarette from her hand. "Off you go, Juno, Liberty." She fished around in her pockets and tossed a battered envelope in Cecile's direction. "Don't disappoint us, angel face."

Liberty struggled up from her chair and pulled Cecile out the door. "You're a damned fool," Liberty growled as soon as they were far enough. "How did you let them coerce you into this?"

Cecile tried to stop walking, but Liberty was still pulling on her arm. "Coerce?"

Liberty groaned and slapped her forehead. "Never mind. There's no getting out of it now." She took a deep breath and stopped suddenly before the stairs. "Listen here, Juno. Idiot that I am, I like you. You…" she broke off instantly, seemingly confused. "You remind me too much of myself." There it was again, that streak of proud beauty. "There are things…" Liberty sighed and closed her eyes. "Things you do not know, and will not know. But I'm going to help you deliver that letter."

Liberty took hold of Cecile and dragged her down the stairs again, into the dampened garden. The garden seemed as it always did, run down when deserted, filled with smoke, abandoned handkerchiefs and cocktail smells, the ghosts of livelier hours. The elephant towered above it like a god.

Liberty pushed Cecile from behind. "Go on, no time to waste."

Satine's room was more luxurious than Cecile remembered it. She allowed her fingers to trace over embroidered cushions (her work, she recognised the stiches), satin covers, glittering jewels. A regular Aladdin's cave of sordid transactions.

The envelope crackled as Cecile placed it on the dresser. The pale paper looked out of place amongst the gold and rouge of Satine's boudoir, which at least meant that Satine would find it. Cecile wondered what was inside.

There was the smack of wood against wood and Cecile whirled about to come face to face with Satine. Satine looked, if possible, more beautiful than ever, but some of the youthful energy was missing. It made her seem tired and oddly gaunt. "Juno," she murmured quietly when she spotted Cecile. "Are you going to turn out to be my thief?"

Cecile backed away, shaking her head vigorously. "No, mam'selle. Just checking on your things. Madame Zidler- Marie- asked me to. 'Cause of thieves." It was a quick lie, and a terrible one, but Satine did not seem to pick up on it.

"She would send you," the star whispered, sitting down heavily on her bed. "Faithful little Juno." Cecile bowed her head to hide her guilty blush. Satine yawned, a careless yawn. "Look at you." She rose and surveyed Cecile critically, as if she were a mother getting her daughter ready for her first ball. "They have turned you into a Diamond Dog!" she observed wonderingly. "Barely anything of the child left in you." Satine poured herself some champagne and sipped it, taking care not to smudge her cherry lips. She looked up, her hair glimmering softly. "I suppose this will be your life."

Cecile did not know what to say. "I suppose it will." A life of playing the temptress.

Satine nodded, her eyes fixed on something Cecile could not see. "I wish you luck."

Cecile gulped, realising it was time to leave. "Thank you."

It had been a strange day. First Liberty had seemed so strange, and then Satine too, even though Liberty had a reputation for being somewhat cryptic. The blonde prostitute had not changed when Cecile found her, leaning against a wall with a cigarette between her lips. "The Moulin Rouge is a prison," she said thickly, as if her jaw refused to open. "There is no escape, even for those who wish it."

Whatever connection Cecile had shared with Liberty was lost in that moment. Liberty had drifted into her own imaginings. Cecile turned, and left her there, because there was nothing else to do.

Later, in her room, an elderly man asked her to name a place she had never seen. It was a nightly tradition, the man in question fancying himself something of an adventurer. He liked to tell Cecile fanciful stories and watch her gaze at him in wonder. But tonight, Cecile could not use her imagination to come up with an idea. She was to tired for anything but the truth.

"Tell me some place you've never seen."

"Try the world."

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Rather more melancholy than I intended… My humour muse seems to have gone on holiday. Anyway, I hope you still managed to enjoy this chapter, and I promise the next one won't take so long.


	16. Chapter 15

So guys, this is the final chapter of 'Cigarettes and Petticoats'. Ever. Boy, has it been a long ride! This chapter took a while because I was on holiday and then I started university, so I apologise. But finally the last chapter is done, so sit back, relax, and enjoy. The lyrics used in this (they're in French) are from the song _Là-Bas _by Jean-Jaques Goldmann. I listened to it a lot while writing this fic, so I included a little tribute.

Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… and one fine morning- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

_F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Great Gatsby'._

If there was one thing that Christine knew for certain, it was that four years added a lot to a girl's face. Not that she had aged- at twenty-four she was hardly up to losing her looks- but there was no doubt that time had left it's mark etched across her features.

Like most girls, Christine was able to look back on the past four years and laugh, but words she had spoken when she was barely twenty were now coming back to haunt her steps. Satine had found a lover, and a highly unsuitable one at that. Their duty was clear: to let Satine's secret slip. All it took was for one of them to take the initiative.

"It's not that I don't want to," Christine told the girls contemplatively one afternoon. "It's just that… It would make everything worse, wouldn't it?"

"Worse?" Nini snorted at the next table. "How can things be worse?"

The statement was all too true. Four years of working her way through ranks of dancers and Christine had lost her entire status, shuffled into position as a grumpy chorus girl. Satine had fulfilled her dreams and become something more than a courtesan who could act, but this triumph on her part meant a demotion for everyone else. It was Christine's greatest fear: anonymity. All her life it had been made clear that she was not a person to be overlooked, whether through admiration, desire, jealousy or simple hatred. Christine did not care with which of these emotions she was regarded, provided she was noticed. But now…

Now everything was different.

In contrast to some of the other, stupider girls, Christine did not envy Satine her romance. Love was an unfortunate position to be in, it made one absent-minded and increasingly embarrassing. But there was something in the way Satine flaunted the emotion, something in the way she put all their jobs at risk with such innocent-

_No. _Christine practically punched her glass onto the table. There was no innocence, no joy. There could never be. All Christine envied was Satine's stardom, that feeling of all eyes watching you and no one else.

She was so unconvinced it made her laugh.

Luck, it seemed, was not on Christine's side that year. Apart from Satine's role, solo parts for female dancers were thinly spread in _Spectacular Spectacular, _and any roles that did not fall to the Four Whores were hotly fought about. Christine's status as one of the better dancers amongst the Diamond Dogs gave her a place in the first row, and three weeks into rehearsal Historic met with an unfortunate accident that saw Christine fill her role as a featured 'slave dancer'. The circumstances of Historic's accident were regarded as suspicious (the stair that had collapsed beneath her was not known to be loose), but Christine had long ago learned not to listen to dressing room gossip.

It was not enough. No small success was enough. Christine had risen too high to accept being sunk so low. Nini, for once, refused to help her; indeed the Englishwoman had not spoken much to Christine ever since Christine had spent a very drunken half hour in the Argentinean's arms during one of Toulouse's parties.

"Why?" Christine finally cried to Tattoo one evening when no one else was about. "Why does that stupid slut Satine get everything she wants? How can she be given so much glory, and then throw it about? She acts like she doesn't even care. Well, I do! I do!"

Tattoo held Christine and kissed her, murmuring something like "Oh, Travesty, it doesn't matter," and for half a minute Christine could have sworn she was in love, with no thought of how wretched everything had become. Then reality returned in the form of a shriek from down the hall, followed by an awful lot of shouting- something about Harlequin and a rope- and love was never mentioned again.

That day tensions ran as thick as the thickest treacle. Christian had added a new song into the show, and the Diamond Dogs had been given a twenty-minute lecture on how to sing in harmony. Morale was at an all-time low.

Christine watched as Satine exchanged looks with Christian that had all the subtlety of a drunken fishwife. The smiles, the kisses behind closed doors, it was all too much. No, something had to be done. She had made a promise after all.

She got up from her chair and walked to towards the Duke with deliberate slowness. It was her best performance, and she wanted everyone to see it; the seductive twist of her hips, the tilt of her head, and her best feature; that mocking smile, worn proudly on her lips. It was her triumph, her decisive step in the future of the Moulin Rouge. No one could rob her of that.

"This endin's silly." Christine jerked. Nini was leaning over the Duke's chair, draping herself over his shoulders. "Why would the courtesan go for the penniless writer?" she said brashly, then checked herself melodramatically. "Oops! I mean _sitar player._"

It took all of Christine's self control not to stamp her foot in fury. Her greatest moment, the few precious seconds when all eyes would be on her, and Nini robbed her of it. Nini, who had helped her so much at first, now willingly let Christine be less noticeable than the most common whore in Montmartre. Ambition had finally torn them apart.

She felt a shadow lay itself across her life. All those years she had been teasing it, enticing it, but always dancing just out of reach. There were times when she had skirted the edges, times when she really thought this was the end, but she had always managed to twirl away again, free in her prison of satin and dancing shoes. Now darkness was taking hold.

Night fell and the lives of those at the windmill were held in balance by the lust of a jealous man. Everyone had collected in the hall to await the outcome, leaving Christine alone in the dressing room. She let them wait a little longer.

It was partly her fault for writing the note that had sent out the challenge. She doubted she would be blamed, as doubtless people were still glaring at Nini and cursing Christian, but it was undeniably true.

Christine looked in the mirror. Yes, time had left its mark. Makeup hid the shadows under her eyes and the rouge dusted over her razor-sharp cheekbones failed to disguise very much. Liquor was now her constant companion after cigarettes began to make her cough.

A sudden banging at the door brought Christine out of her thoughts. "C'mon, Trav," Dominatrix's unmistakable voice announced in the hallway. "Satine's off to fuck the Duke, the writer looks as if he's about to die, and China Doll and Mome are taking bets on when that's going to happen. We don't want to miss anything."

"No," Christine agreed hoarsely. "No, we don't."

She wiped the blood on a handkerchief before leaving.

&#&#&#&#&#&#

"Satine," Marguerite announced one evening, "is a slut. A stupid, worthless, talentless slut who doesn't even have the sense to fuck the man who pays for her."

"Hmm, now there's something that couldn't be more obvious," Pearly Queen muttered into her absinthe. Rehearsals had been postponed while the lead actress received some private tutoring from the scriptwriter. Caroline had been quick to speculate as to what that private tutoring may include.

Marguerite threatened Pearly with the glowing embers of her cigarette to make the girl shut up, which, thankfully, she did. Marguerite had no patience for argument anymore. It was hard enough to survive without people being untrustworthy. Marguerite wondered how long it would be before discipline failed her and her magpie ways led her into stealing from other girls.

She would have voiced her fears to Travesty if she hadn't known the girl would probably not care. Travesty was always rather self-absorbed and the dire circumstances had only succeeded in making it worse. In some way, Marguerite understood: Travesty burned and dimmed with the stage lights, whereas Marguerite was a survivor. A silly show was no worry to her.

And yet… Her fingers itched, trembling for the touch of gold and silver. What she could no longer receive in jewels, Marguerite made up for in tattoos, having design after design traced on her skin until there was very little space left. When her money for such things ran out, Marguerite had one of the tattoo artists teach her how to do them herself in exchange for an afternoon of free pleasure. Roses roped themselves across her thighs, clashing with yellow stars, blue birds captured amongst inky false green lace. When every inch of skin was coloured, Marguerite found a willing human canvas in Dominatrix (the other girls refused to mar their porcelain skin), and soon spiders were spinning their webs across the sadist's back.

The afternoon was a dull one, and Marguerite alternated between smoking, drinking and tracing a design on Dominatrix's muscular upper arm. "You're hurting," her subject mumbled, her lips numb from inhaling tobacco and anything else she could get her hands on.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows sceptically. "I'm surprised you still feel pain, Domi."

Dominatrix frowned and dug her nails into Marguerite's wrist, quickly but painfully. "Likewise, I'm sure."

Travesty gave an odd, wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. "Look at what we've come to," she said shakily, covering her mouth. "Domi's so frustrated at not being able crack whips that she has to let it out on Tattoo's arm." She let out another cough. Marguerite watched her warily. "And Tattoo," Travesty continued, "has to… to…" she trailed off, choosing to pour gin down her throat instead.

Marguerite paused, examining the marks Dominatrix's nails had made on her wrist. A different sort of pain from the needles she was used to. "Trav, leave us alone," she said tiredly. "I'll talk to you later."

For a moment, Travesty looked hurt, but the expression was gone as soon as it came and she disappeared to chat with the Four Whores. Marguerite tried to talk to her in the evening, to make her see sense, but things were rudely interrupted by the news that Harlequin had tried to hang herself from the attic rafters. Marguerite, never one to miss the latest scandal, rushed to the attic to find one of the stagehands cutting an almost unconscious Harlequin down from the ceiling while Antoinette wailed into Liberty's shoulder. Liberty, to Marguerite's surprise, seemed oddly unaffected, merely a little pale. Her eyes were full of nothing, or everything, it was impossible to tell.

Marguerite had managed to escape the noose more than once throughout her life, and the thought that someone had voluntarily chosen that fate was unfathomable. "Oh, don't worry, you'll experience it soon enough," Caroline predicted nastily when Marguerite mentioned it. "There's something in you that will never be satisfied until you swing."

It all went to hell the day before rehearsal. Nini had finally blabbed to the Duke, something Marguerite was secretly relieved to have gotten behind her. At least there would be no more waiting for Satine and her lover to give themselves away. Satine was in the tower, allegedly to save them all, even though they all knew they were creatures already dying.

Marguerite drew on her cigarette, following that with a gullet-full of bitter absinthe. It was only a few hours before dawn.

Travesty entered the hall somewhat later than everyone else, and Marguerite gently clasped her hand as she passed by, a silent farewell and acknowledgement that years ago they had declared the challenge that had betrayed them all. Travesty paused, and glanced toward her for a moment, then was gone.

When Satine finally released her hold on the world (romantically, in her lover's arms), no one dared enter her dressing room for about a week, fearful that her sickness could somehow hold a presence there. Marguerite, not one for superstition, avoided the room for another reason. There were so many jewels in that room, but one didn't rob the dead. Not unless one was starving.

Finally, ten days after Satine's first and last performance as a real actress, Marguerite gave into temptation. The lock was pathetically easy to crack, and not even Zidler seemed eager to look after Satine's jewellery. Sapphires, rubies, diamonds, gold, Marguerite swept them all into a small bag, leaving no box unopened, no draw locked. She even rifled through Satine's wardrobe and helped herself to some silks. It wasn't as if Satine could miss them.

There was one necklace Marguerite could not bare to touch, and that was the huge string of diamonds given to Satine by the Duke. It was too heavy, too… collar-like. As if whoever received it instantly belonged to the giver.

She heard footsteps in the hallway; there wasn't much time. Quickly, Marguerite lit a match and tossed it into the fireplace, then threw the necklace onto the flames. A fitting tribute for a fallen courtesan. It smoked, refusing to burn, indulging its' final performance amongst the dancing light.

She made her way out through the backdoor. Somewhere, a hangman tightened his noose.

&#&#&#&#&#&#

In the summer of 1899 Marianne passed her twenty-third birthday, and already the years between then and the day she had come to the Moulin Rouge at a mere sixteen felt like centuries. Her birthday had little acknowledgement from even herself, as it came on the very day Harold Zidler found an investor to turn the dancehall into a theatre. Still, a wild party was held in the rooms of a local artist, and Marianne held up a glass of champagne in a silent toast to her new age. By her next birthday, it would be a new century. The world would be a different place, but she would still be here, in some Montmartre attic, aged by a life not worth living.

Dawn painted the rooftops of Paris as Antoinette and Harlequin found Marianne on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of absinthe in the other. It was surprising to see both of them upright, as most of the girls had succumbed to alcohol and were lying scattered about the room, cigarettes smouldering against their skirts. Strange Schoolgirl lay behind Marianne, slumped against the wall like a rag doll some child had carelessly discarded.

"Happy birthday, Liberty," Harlequin whispered with a ghost of a smile. "At least you went to a party."

The two of them presented her with a gift, the only one she had received. It was a red rose, slightly limp, with blue and white ribbons tied on its stem to represent the Tricolour. It had obviously been plucked from the Moulin's garden, and seeing it made Marianne begin to cry, even though there was no reason. When Antoinette asked her why Marianne replied that it was normal to tear up when inebriated, even though she hadn't drunk much at all.

The rose wilted quickly and dripped its petals onto her dresser.

Some days Marianne awoke and wondered why she bothered carrying on. She lead a nothing life, a worthless one, one so far removed from her childhood of memorising dates and names amidst towering shelves and dusty books. From one extreme into the other.

She wondered even more the night Harlequin kicked a trunk from under her feet, leaving herself dangling pathetically at the end of a rope. Harlequin had begun to decay a long time ago, crawling further and further into the grave. Harlequin, at heart a romantic, lived most of her life being starved of love, any chance at it being snatched away by greedy claws. Seeing Satine and Christian living a blissful fairytale romance was more than she could bear, and after weeks of jealously crying herself to sleep, Harlequin decided to end it all. Antoinette found Harlequin just as she was about to slip away, and the girl shrieked loud enough to wake up the entire _quartier_.

Marianne watched silently as Maximilian the stagehand ended Harlequin's failed suicide attempt, concentrating instead on comforting Antoinette. Juno was one of the first girls to reach the attic, and she looked on, pale-faced and bug-eyed. Garden Girl came next and was violently sick.

Harlequin continued to fade from lack of love, though Antoinette refusing to leave her side prevented her from making any further attempts on her life. So Harlequin lived on, barely, a dying star in their constellation.

Marianne had nightmares again. Travesty laughing, Harlequin dangling from the rafters, Juno huddled in the shadows like a ghost, her father chasing her through fog-filled alleys, and blood, blood everywhere…

Things suddenly became clear. She had to move on, or else she would die here, a torrid whore's death amongst silk and sex and rouge. She had to leave if she wanted any chance at life at all.

Throughout her years as a cancan dancer, Marianne had earned a decent bit of money and, despite most of it disappearing at the bottom of a wine glass, she had spent some of it on a very nice day dress that she had little opportunity to wear. It was of very thick, heavy wool in a striking shade of red, with black fur trimmings around the cuffs and neck. A small black hat with a veil made the whole ensemble seem very daring for polite society, but it made Marianne look more of a lady than she had ever been before. The time had come to say farewell.

Marianne hugged Antoinette and Harlequin goodbye, regretting the knowledge that she would never see them again. "You're a fool," Antoinette exclaimed. "Where will you go from here? Who will look after you? You've no money, no family to take you in…"

"I'll manage," Marianne interrupted gently. "Good luck with the show."

Harlequin sobbed and blew her nose into her handkerchief. "We'll miss you."

Marianne smiled. "Yes."

And with one last look at the dancehall, Marianne turned on her heel and took her first steps into the world.

&#&#&#&#&#&#

"And one, two three, four, five, six- no, Juno, you've gone wrong again!"

Cecile sighed and tried not to glare at Zidler as he passed by. Dancing the identical steps in rows of six did not agree with her. She was used to the speed and vigour of the cancan, where a foot out of place did not really matter and everyone was able to be as free and energetic as they wanted. One thing was for certain: Cecile was not destined for the ballet.

She was placed between Garden Girl and Liberty for most of the dances in the production, and tripped and turned her way through tedious slave dances and the so-called 'tantric cancan'. Garden Girl took to everything with her usual grace, and Liberty moved through the steps almost mechanically, learning quickly and rarely being out of place, but utterly passionless.

The seasons changed into an early autumn, complete with rather a lot of rain, and Cecile and Garden Girl amused themselves in the garden by throwing piles of wet, dead leaves at each other, squealing when they dripped into their collars and soaked their hair. Cecile was not fond of autumn, a season she had always considered a good time to stay indoors and wait for the joys of snow and Christmas. Now she needed all the amusement she could get.

"_Là-bas…" _Garden Girl sang childishly, striking a pose. Cecile laughed; it was a popular song from the music halls. "_Loin de nos vies, de nos villages, j'ai oublierai ta voix, ton visage… J'ai beau te serrer dans mes bras… Tu m'echappes déjà, là-bas._"

"Very romantic," Cecile praised, taking Garden Girl's hands and spinning her in a circle as if they were little girls. "You could almost think Christian had written it!"

Garden Girl, her nose red from the chill of the autumn afternoon, spun around again, giggling. "Yes, it is rather bohemian," she agreed, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck. "But a little too upsetting. He's more the 'oh, we'll be in love forever and never part' type."

"Hmm." Cecile flopped into a chair, lighting one of the cigarettes she'd recently taken to smoking. "Will their love ever end?" she asked lightly.

Garden Girl played with a loose strand of hair as she sat down next to Cecile. "Oh, probably," she breathed airily. "I'm sure it's getting in Satine's way, and, well, nothing does that for long."

"I don't think Satine wants it to end," Cecile whispered. "She's feeling too good for that."

Satine still had her remnants of admiration amongst the Diamond Dogs, as disguised as they may have been. Harlequin watched the lovers with wistful looks, thinking of the romance she would never have, Babydoll tried to copy the way she moved, Nini had a hate that could only stem from justified jealousy, and Cecile… Cecile watched Satine play at love with her writer and wondered why she bothered.

At nineteen, Cecile was hardly a child anymore. She had grown into her role as one of the lower ranking girls, having petty quarrels, playing pranks on other dancers, sharing her bed with countless men and not remembering a single one. She blended in well with other nighttime creatures.

With no dancehall to provide regular customers, the Diamond Dogs were forced to work the streets and alleys where they had first begun their trade. Cecile, having started at the most high-class bordello in Montmartre, had little success at first, being so used to men simply falling into her arms. Eventually she found a few lonely souls in the taverns, and then was summoned by a boy no older than sixteen. He had her against a wall, Cecile doing most of the work, it being his first time with a woman, and when he thanked her afterward she laughed in his face.

"Next time, do it the proper way," she sniggered, stuffing the money into her pockets. "In a field, surrounded by flowers, with a girl whose name you know."

Cecile began to walk away, only to hear the boy call out to her. "Mademoiselle," he said plaintively. "What is your name?"

Slowly, Cecile turned around. The early morning fog left a wet sheen across her face. "Oh no, boy," she reprimanded. "I'm not that girl."

What should have been the beginning of a new life for all of them ended up being the start of the end of their world. Satine, one of the few constants in Cecile's life, gave into her illness right after the final curtain fell on opening night. It was impossible for Cecile to accept that the woman she had been a companion to for so long was now no longer there. She kept expecting Satine to come around the next corner in the hallway, or ask her to fetch some stockings. The goddess of the Moulin Rouge had gone forever.

It was a while before Cecile could work up the courage to enter Satine's rooms. It was a mess of remnants; Tattoo had swept through them before, leaving only tattered bedclothes and corsets behind. The remains of something sparkly smoked in the fireplace, and Cecile stepped up to it, wondering what Tattoo could possibly have left behind. It was the Duke's fabulous necklace, still magnificent amongst the ashes as Satine was still magnificent in death. Cecile gave a cry, wiping away the soaked makeup that made tracks across her face. It didn't matter what the other girls said. Satine had been special. She had made Cecile into something other than just a dressmaker's girl, had shown her that beauty and love were possible even in the depths of Montmartre. Cecile had witnessed love, or rather the lack of love, in so many girls, but no one had ever loved them back. She had seen Liberty pine after Travesty, unattainable as the moon, and Harlequin, swinging from the ceiling, shaking at the grief that she was still alive. But none had been loved as Satine had.

It was midnight when Cecile left the windmill and crossed the muddy streets to the tenements. She had never been to Christian's garret, but she had often seen them in the window, oblivious to anyone but each other. Now the writer lay listlessly on his bed, sobbing brokenly for his Satine, still seeing no one but her. Cecile, unnoticed, left the charred necklace on his desk. She had no idea what he would do with it, if he even knew what it was, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Like her namesake, she flitted, spirit-like, onto the darkened street. Her makeup was still fresh, and she took up her place by the corner, one hand her hip.

Back to work.

&&&&&&&&

Forgive me ending on a rather sombre note. It just seemed right. I'm quite sad to say goodbye to the girls! Never fear, I hope to write more about them. I also intend to edit all of 'Cigarettes', making it new and improved… though not just yet.

_Many thanks go to the lovely Rosemarie-ouhisama, who has helped me through this with very helpful suggestions, feedback and criticisms. Thanks also to Phemale, for reviewing and writing beautiful fanfics (everyone, read her stuff! It's fantastic), and Thessaly for constructive crit. And of course, thankyou to every single person who's reviewed this! Those reviews mean the world to me._

_Adios, or rather, au revoir,_

_The Sugarfaerie_


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